


The Scientific Method

by DegenerativeFicsDisease



Series: Physics 101: A Study in Attraction [1]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Abuse of Power, BDSM, Bondage, Breathplay, Depression, Edging, Electrostimulation, Emotional Abuse, Exhibitionism, F/M, Face Sitting, Foot Fetish, Hand & Finger Kink, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kink as Self-Harm, Masochism, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Overstimulation, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Problematic Relationships, Professor/Student Relationship, Public Sex, Reader-Insert, Sadism, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Switching, Tickling, like heavy smut fyi, minimal plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28718097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DegenerativeFicsDisease/pseuds/DegenerativeFicsDisease
Summary: Christopher Arclight is a raging douche and overall shitty professor. You're a humanities major who hates general education requirements and needs one more science credit to graduate. You chose his introductory physics course because you make incredibly bad decisions. Christopher is a disaster who uses the situation to test out some personal hypotheses. You don't mind; you like being used, you think.
Relationships: V | Chris Arclight/Reader
Series: Physics 101: A Study in Attraction [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2208813
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Introduction: The purpose of this study aims to explore shifts in self-identified sexuality and subsequent boundaries in relationships. Minimal research has been conducted in this field on a personal level. The current hypothesis states that Christopher Arclight, age 27, does not experience sexual attraction to women. One research participant, (Your Name), will be present throughout the course of this study. IRB approval pending.

General education requirements, you decide after your last midterm of this semester of torment, can fuck right off. There will never exist a reason why you need to take a physics course, but the liberal arts gods have decided that it's nothing short of a necessity, and now you're trapped in a room full of oddly thrilled freshmen who excitedly blabber on about their lab scores, or some equally nerdy garbage that you can't get behind. You and the only other girl in class prefer to sit in the back corner, distancing yourself from the Copernicus-loving dweebs; the second hand embarrassment still flutters to the back of the classroom, though, and you probably cringe in your seat more than you care to admit. You don't remember her name, but you catch each other's eye and shake your heads, both telepathically agreeing that dropping the course would have been the right choice, graduation be damned. 

To make matters worse, Professor Arclight (Doctor Arclight, he likes to be called, because he's an undeniably pompous prick with a superiority complex the size of Jupiter) will endlessly drone on whenever these nerds ask questions about gravity, or inertia, or whatever the fuck else. You've had to finish numerous lessons on your own, your sacred at-home dwelling morphing into a physics prison of pain, all because the obnoxious blond with the lisp wants to jerk the professor off in front of the entire class. You're a fan of exhibitionism, but there's a time and a place. Physics 101 is not the right setting.

Christopher Arclight has a degree in some fancy version of astrophysics, and since it's a decidedly useless degree in the real world, he teaches. He pretends to smile and nod enthusiastically when his students ask him questions, but you know better. You see the way his eye twitches behind his glasses. He regrets it. He regrets ever agreeing to teach an intro course, because all of you are so goddamned stupid compared to his seminar students. One's writing his honors thesis on two-dimensional gravity; the 101 kids are struggling to recite Newton's laws from memory. Serves him right, you figure, for getting a dumbass degree with no other application other than holing himself up in a lab with other stuck-up geniuses who score in the 99th percentile for science, and the 24th percentile for relational skills and emotional intelligence. 

Yeah, Professor Arclight made the other girl in the class cry once. He didn't see the problem in holding her lab notebook up for all to see, a giant red-printed F scrawled across the entire page. The less-than-empathic geek squad chuckled and guffawed at the sight. You called him a raging dickhead with a humiliation kink when you passed his desk that day; under your breath, because you suck at confrontation and exceed at passive aggression. 

Now, Professor (Doctor, god damn it) Arclight stands at the white board, droning on about how the median score for his near-impossible midterm was a 73, because that means physics is extra hard, and people have to appreciate his impossibly high IQ in response. It brings you joy when the row in front of you collectively hangs their heads in disappointment, but it's fleeting, because you see the professor in the corner of your eye, holding the last two tests with a white-knuckle grip. 

“Which of you is (Your Name)?” 

Ah, yes, of course. It's hard to differentiate between the only two women in the class. Clearly, because your lab partner has three more colors in her hair than you do, a completely different skin tone, and you're fairly certain that even though you don't remember her name, it's distinctly not the same as yours. The Doctor carries himself with an air of misogyny, as many white males do when they're steeped in STEM. 

“That's me.” You raise a single finger in response, making zero effort to hide the fact that your phone is very much on (against class rules, because he needs everyone's undivided attention for the full hour). 

He flips your test over, score side up, tapping a finger at the note he's scribbled at the top next to a proud score of 33%. (“See me after class – this is an abysmal score, even for you.”) Cool, you figure, that's probably the score you deserve after studying for twelve hours and cheating off of Poindexter McGee who only sits in your row because he can spend the entire class duration playing Hearthstone on his phone and still pull A's without a care in the world. 

“Hey,” you tap the kid's shoulder and he threatens to jump out of his skin, “can I see your test?” 

You wish you hadn't looked, because now you're oh so modestly marching up to Professor Arclight's desk, clutching your test with renewed, poisonous vigor. You don't lack tact; you wait for the rest of the students to file out before dropping your exam on his desk with a smile.

“I have a question.” 

Chris raises a pointed silver brow. “Is this about your grade?” 

“Kind of!” Your smile fades, and you mirror his haughty finger tapping. “Wanna tell me why I answered question five the same way as the other kids, and somehow got marked down for it?”

Christopher wears his hair in a long braid, and when he sighs with a marked note of exhaustion, you picture yourself picking him up by his hair and flinging him out the third story window. He'd land in a line of well-kept rose bushes, and his broken body could make for good fertilizer. He takes his glasses off for good measure, rubbing at his eyes to really make you realize that you asked an amazingly stupid question. “You need to show your work, Miss... (Your Name), was it?” 

Jesus Christ, yes, you literally told him your name not five minutes ago. Women are beneath him, clearly. “So I'm failing because I don't write out the equations?” You cross your arms. “Seems harsh.” 

“Your equations,” he sighs, making it a point to show you that his dirty lenses matter more than your grades, “are indicative of you understanding the material. No equations, no passing grade.” 

“Excuse--” 

“And I know you need this course to graduate, so I suggest following my recommendations.” 

Fuck this guy. He went out of his way to pull up your budding transcript and confirm that you well and truly do need this last science credit to graduate on time. The most you've done for him is read his RateMyProfessor reviews, all of which are thirsty men and women commenting on how badly they want to fuck him in his office after an especially tough lab assignment. Degenerates. 

“I might be better off if you were half-way decent at getting through the material. Have you tried being a good professor?” 

Doctor Arclight falls into a glare after readjusting his too-thick-rimmed spectacles. “Actually,” he begins with a bitter smirk, “I believe you've called me, oh, what was it?” He taps a thin finger against his lips. He's wearing a nude lipstick. Of course he is, his eyeliner's more dramatic than reality TV. “A lanky fuckwit of a human with, oh, an emotional quotient of fifteen? Or was it,” he squints, pretending to get lost in thought, and apparently you weren't so quiet calling him all those names over the last six weeks, “an unabashed gaping asshole with a fetish for failing his students?” 

Yeah, you've called him all those things. Maybe you should've waited to put your earbuds in each time you passed him on your way out, because you clearly underestimated your vocal range. Honestly, you're more proud than ashamed, but the thought of being on campus for another semester because your professor hates your guts isn't your idea of a good time. 

“Yeah, about that...” 

“I don't think you have a solid defense for yourself.” 

“Do you?” You challenge. 

Christopher rounds his desk, circling the bold-faced F on your paper once more for good measure, handing it back to you with a twinkling of a taunt in his eyes. The only girl in his seminar, who's also in your yoga class, has gushed time and again over his eyes; something about them being 'pretty sapphires that practically shine under fluorescent lights,' along with other stupidass physics metaphors that you've never quite understood. She can't hold herself in downward dog for more than three seconds though, so she sucks in other ways.

“You were right about one thing,” he muses aloud, “but that's not why I failed you.” 

You blanch, thoroughly taken back, because what the fuck, who blatantly admits to getting off on the humiliation of others when the classroom door keeps opening with curious students poking in? 

“We can finish this conversation in my office.” He turns and walks away without a care in the world, seemingly, flicking his braid over his back. This Rapunzel-ass loser wants you to follow him, and maybe it's because the thought of him in a dress is actually kinda hot, but you walk behind him for a second. Just to humor him.

“I have a class to get to,” you grumble, no bite to add to your bark. You left your physics textbook in the lecture hall, and not lugging around an oversized text makes you feel weaker. 

“Which is?” 

“I thought you looked at my transcript.” 

You're right, he supposes. You're probably taking a history course that no one in their right mind would dedicate their life to, because it's a stupid degree that lends itself to teaching and only teaching, and huh, he pauses, you sure did have a lot in common already. God, he needs friends. 

Professor Arclight's office has got to be the plainest room this side of the Western Hemisphere. Like every other professor to grace the world with their presence, his degrees are framed and stuck right behind his chair, surrounding him with proof of his alleged expertise. There's a closed window with blackout curtains, which makes you wonder what he gets up to in here behind closed doors, and his desk houses loose leaf papers and a heavy book on QED, because he's a huge loser. 

“You'll need to ace the final and subsequent labs to pass the course.” Chris takes his seat atop his reinforced wooden desk, making him seem oddly out of character. He's a hardass for rules and regulations, and tables do not double as chairs, especially in his classroom. He's above the law, of course. “You might consider finding a tutor.” 

“Seriously? You want me to get straight A's on literally everything?” 

“I don't 'want' you to do anything.” He's using air quotes and crossing his legs, posture screaming that he's already bored with this conversation. “You'll either study well or be adding another semester. Take your pick.” 

There's no way you're going to have the patience to be at school for another three and a half months. Most of the people here grate on your every nerve, some of them far too sheltered and lacking any semblance of real-world knowledge, others with their heads so far up their asses they can almost see their throats. You hate physics, though; maybe if you fail out, you can take a baby-tier biology course. Exercise science could be simple enough. Or... 

“You can't like, assign extra credit or something?” 

Chris can't stand it when people throw the word 'like' into sentences that clearly don't call for such a word. It's needless and excessive, and reeks of basic bitch energy that he's never had the time for patience for on a given day. You're no exception to the rule; not that one, anyway. 

“You'd have to make a compelling argument.” 

You've never liked this man. Ever since you stepped foot into his classroom, you've made it a point to find things about him to pick apart as a means of entertainment in a dry course. He only wears dress pants, and you're assuming he knows the difference between those and chinos, the latter being far too casual for a man of status. He's stuffy and plain, always wearing solid color button downs, exclusively in jewel tones. The perfect model for a billboard on the importance of unions for teachers, although you doubt that your professor is the kind of person who advocates for workers' rights. 

“Miss (Your Name).” 

“Yeah?” Fuck, was he talking? If you missed the first and only bone that Chris is willing to throw at you, you're fucked. 

He sighs. He's over this. His brain is too far advanced for you, and any assignment he comes up with will undoubtedly result in another failing grade. Not that he minds, as clearly stated before, but you're a nice girl with a slight attitude problem at worst (if Oxford has since changed the definition of the word 'nice,' anyway).

“If you have other...” He lazily twists his hand, bad at words and good with numbers. “Ideas, so to speak, I'm open to suggestions.” 

You snort. “I take it I can't offer to fuck you in an attempt to save my grade.” 

Doctor Arclight perfectly pauses atop his desk, staring at you in such a way that your heart kinda starts to beat a little faster. You're just scared of flunking out, that's all. It has nothing to do with the hardened facial expression that reeks of dom energy. There's nothing appealing about his pretty pastel bangs, which he probably dyes himself because he's a vain peacock of a human being. His jawline looks exactly like any other Calvin Klein model's, and fuck, his ears are pierced, apparently. Unless that's a clip-on earring, but you're certain the dangling unnamed planet twinkling in the air is made of diamonds; he's tenured and wants everyone to know it.

“I'm not unwilling to entertain the idea,” he shrugs finally. 

The laugh bursts out from your throat with a push of disbelief. “There's not a chance in hell that you're into girls.” 

“The basics of Coulomb's Law, Miss (Your Name)?” 

Professor Arclight gets up and locks the door behind you while you search your brain for the answer. Something about... God, it'd be easier to remember if you didn't feel him standing directly behind you, his hands pooling your hair behind your neck. “It's... objects and charges, and...” 

“If the objects have opposite charges?” His lips are hovering right below your ear, and his voice sends little shivers and prickles of attraction down your spine. Which is stupid, because you've never once considered him attractive until now. Ah, that's right.

“Objects with opposite charges attract each other,” you answer. Your voice can't break a whisper, the heat of the moment suffocating your would-be energy. Your professor has already dipped his lips against your neck, teeth delicately nipping at your skin, light kisses immediately following. Cool, now you'll have hickeys and smeared lipstick all over your neck; this guy has no consideration for others.

“Good girl,” Christopher murmurs against your earlobe, teeth tugging at your flesh. “Perhaps you're not so far beyond helping.” 

“Fuck you,” you hiss with a wispy moan. The good doctor has taken to sucking at your neck, wanting to let the entire campus know that you're insanely desperate to get out of here and graduate on time. There are worse professors to sleep with, you suppose, but the egotistical fuckwad with albino features who dedicates his life to studying something as dry as gravity? Your poor spirit crumbles at the thought.

“That was the goal, to my understanding.” 

“You're seriously gonna use me,” your breath hitches after a particularly rough bite against your collarbone, “to test some weird-ass hypothesis regarding your sexuality?” 

“By that logic,” Christopher tosses your backpack to the wall and slowly spins you around, “you're using me for a passing grade that you clearly don't deserve.” 

“I don't get points for knowing the old guy's law of attraction?” 

“Not if you don't recall his name.”

“You couldn't even remember my name earlier.” 

“I suppose not,” he shrugs, “if only because in my mind,” he lifts your chin and brushes stray hair out of your eyes, forcing you to look up to him as he often asks (demands) everyone else to do, “I refer to you as the 'obnoxious little brat' of my introductory course.” 

The last person to call you a brat made sure you couldn't walk straight for the better part of a 48 hour window. The longer your self-righteous, self-assured professor teasingly brushes against your skin and forces you to look at him, the more you want him to... Well, the more you want him, period. You were never the best at choosing great men to spend an evening with; the streak continues, and thank God for the curtains, because you'll never live this down. 

“It would do you some good to keep my expectations in mind.” Christopher tugs at the top of your jeans with a surprising amount of strength for a seemingly slender dude. You stumble over your feet and are only caught by his other arm and his chest. “You'll continue to call me Doctor Arclight.” He starts to work at the buttons of your flannel shirt. “I expect you to listen well and do as you're told. The better you behave,” the top few buttons come undone slowly, “the better your final grade.”

You try to heave a taunting smirk, maybe raise your eyebrows in challenge, but the way he talks to you is reminiscent of fond memories that spark a lust in your brain and a jolt between your legs. “So,” you start to lose your voice to the sensation of his fingertips grazing the area just above your breasts, “what happens if I call you Christopher?” 

Christopher's lectures include a combination of both showing and telling, because again, he's bad at words. So he gives you a demonstration, just as he always does in class. He roughly takes both sides of your top and yanks them apart, seams ripping, a stray button clattering against his desk. “I advise against it.” His tone shifts from pompous and prick-ish to firm and dark, and you're ashamed to admit that yeah, he's pretty hot right now. “That will be your first and only warning, Miss (Your Name).” 

It occurs to you just how desperate you are, not just for a grade, but for Christopher (Doctor Arclight; better get it all out now). Just like in his dry-ass, godforsaken lectures, he's slow, careful to enunciate everything precisely and fully, letting a simple concept drag on for far too long. Usually, you lose focus, but the way he calculates his every move has you enamored with his motions, locking you in place. Your shirt falls to the floor in a crumpled heap, a testament to the current state of your ego. Christopher clicks his tongue, eyeing you up and down. 

“That's rather bold.” He's referring to the lacy see-through bra, presumably; he's probably never uttered the word in a sentence before, and doesn't wanna start now, just in case his pronunciation sucks as much as he does. 

“You never know when you're gonna need to seduce your physics professor.” 

“Cute,” he mutters, clearly lacking in amusement. 

“What happened to every action having an equal, opposite reaction?” You don't want to give him the satisfaction that comes with admitting to wanting to see him naked, but your hands are on autopilot, grabbing at his satin collar hungrily and unashamed. 

“My shirt will be staying on for the time being.” He removes your fingers and smooths the material out, because God forbid a single wrinkle mars his pristine cerulean top. “That's not exactly what the law implies, either.” He sighs a bit forcefully, making a show of expressing disappointment in head shakes and eye rolls. “You're going to fail if you keep this up.” 

“Then let me earn some of those points back.” 

He wastes no time dipping down to press his lips to yours. The kiss is rough, harsh without being too forceful, a show that demands attention as he works hungrily against your mouth. You're caught off guard and idly wonder who the hell taught this man how to kiss; he's precise and knows exactly how to move to get your lips to part further, and the little moans against his breath are way too embarrassing in the moment. Maybe there's something to being a genius at physics and knowing how to kiss well. Friction and shit; who knows.

Christopher has spent the first twenty seven years of his life operating under the assumption that he has no desire for women. Not once has he looked at a girl at any point in his life and gone 'ah, yes, that's rather attractive. I like that.' Come to think of it, he's never quite felt that way about a man, either, and rarely has any type of sexual fantasy that involves images or faces. Concepts, however, get him going, and the idea of dominating every fiber of your being drums up a fire within him that he can't ignore. It has nothing to do with you personally, he reasons, and everything to do with what you stand for: a challenging, holier-than-thou history major with a distaste for hard sciences. He wants to break you of the habit, force you to realize that his class matters. You've insulted him for far too long. He's saving you from yourself, if anything.

You shouldn't laugh against his lips. You should swallow the giggles and ignore the clumsy hands trying, and failing, to unhook your bra. You can't though; you're too weak, and they come out in little strings of breathy, teasing syllables. “Need a hand?” 

Christopher rips away from you, and you can't help but simultaneously pout and grin. You're a glutton for punishment; probably why you chose physics over chemistry, or anything else with concepts that you can apply to your daily life more than once a year. 

“Don't test me, Miss (Your Name).” 

“Ah, right, let me rephrase. Need a hand, Doctor Arclight?” 

His eyes narrow into a glare as he slowly takes you by the wrists, turning you around and promptly bending you over his desk. The way your jeans hug your hips shouldn't excite him as much as it does. It's the punishment he's looking forward to, of course, and nothing more. “I don't appreciate your tone.” 

“I'm naturally monotone. My bad.” 

“And a natural test of my patience.” Doctor Arclight rests a hand on your denim-clad ass and gives it a light tap. “I trust you know how to count.” 

“On a good day, sure.” Yeah, swat at his hands for good measure, see where that gets you. You shiver with anticipation when he once more catches your wrists and pushes them into your back; you reward him with a shuddering gasp and giggle laden with lust. “What're you gonna do, Doctor? You can't fight me and spank me at the same time.” 

“Hands behind your back, Miss (Your Name).” 

“If you can tell me what law of physics this relates to, sure.” 

Christopher lowers himself to your ear, erection pressing against your backside. He's apparently more into women than you thought, because damn, he's firm and proud. Your breath hitches in your throat at the thought of getting fucked right here and now, body uselessly draped across his desk. But Christopher will drag this on until the end of time, as is tradition.

“I'm not going to repeat myself.” 

“I seem to remember,” you tilt your head to the side, “you calling me a brat not too long ago. Consider this living up to my name.” 

Professor Arclight's patience starts and stops in the classroom, and from what you've seen, he has very little of it. He's removed rowdy freshmen from his lectures if they so much as breathe the wrong way, or dare to ask the same question twice, because the first explanation was better suited for a Physics 400 student. His tolerance for your antics, subsequently, just doesn't exist. 

“This would be much easier,” he grumbles, pinning your arms to your back with a forearm, other hand working at something metallic, “had I taken you anywhere else.” 

“What,” you laugh, “you wanna take me home, Daddy?” 

No one's called him that before, because Christopher Arclight has slept with exactly one man whose idea of a kinky time was having sex with the lights on. He wants to hate it, if only because it came from you of all people, but the heat pricking at his neck gives him away. With a bit of effort, he wraps his belt around your wrists, tightening it in place as well as he can before his hands return to your ass.

“Remember to show your work.” 

“Your idea of dirty talk is--!” Oh, he doesn't like that one bit. He hits harder than you expect, and you can't help but gift him a high-pitched yelp and a strangled count. “You ever consider safe words or anything?” 

“You clearly have no trouble speaking your mind.” (“Two! Ow, fuck me.”) Chris blinks, unimpressed. “I didn't think I was being so rough so soon.” 

Tugging against his belt proves to be shockingly useless. Whatever high quality rich-person leather he buys ends up coming in handy; you can't shake him or swat him away, and fuck, he hits harder when you try. Each smack reverberates in his barren office, a tolling bell reminding you just how sick this is when you step back and really think about it. You disgust yourself, especially when you shriek with each spanking, making it to ten before he resumes rubbing and massaging. 

“That wasn't so hard, was it?”

“I hate you,” you grumble against the varnished wood. “So fucking much.” 

Christopher picks you up at the waist, pulling you against him while he fumbles blindly for your button and zipper. “Do you now?” He asks, sounding bored and feeling so horribly riled up. Your jeans fall to your shins, letting him marvel at his handiwork for a moment. Red marks have kissed your skin in various places, and he almost considers feeling bad. “I don't tolerate lying in my classes, Miss (Your Name).” 

“Then it's a good thing that I well and truly hate you.” 

Professor Arclight runs a stray hand down your hip, resting on the back of your thigh before snaking its way around to your crotch. A quick physical inspection of your panties confirms his assumptions, and he wishes you could see the shit-eating smirk on his face. “I suppose you could both hate me and be undeniably turned on at the same time.” 

You squeeze your lips shut and beg yourself to not make any embarrassing noises while his fingers slide underneath. Praise be to unrealistic beauty standards forcing you to find an esthetician; you'll be sure to tip her well next time. “Don't flatter yourself. It's for the grade.” 

“Oh,” Chris hums in amusement, dipping the tip of his finger in ever so slightly. He probably has a thing for edging, you assume, given how fucking long it takes him to get to the point whenever he talks. “I think it has everything to do with me, don't you?” 

“The fuck it does...” You wriggle and writhe and try to encourage him to move in deeper, or hook a finger; something, anything, but he's an asshole and would rather use his bodyweight to keep you firmly in place. 

“You seem to have a lot of thoughts about me for someone who allegedly can't stand my existence,” he whispers tauntingly above your head, peppering your neck with rough, harsh bites. “I don't think you'd call me such names if you didn't--” 

You both jump to attention in response to the sharp knocks on the door. Doctor Arclight composes himself in record time, mechanically smoothing out his hair, clothes, retrieving his belt, and immediately taking a seat behind his desk to better hide his arousal. You, however, take to resting your chin in your hands and grinning directly at him, batting your eyes for dramatic effect. The knocking continues, and if glares could kill, your body would be unrecognizable to homicide investigators. 

“Wouldn't it be hilarious if you got caught with a half-naked student in your office, Doctor?” 

“Hurry up and hide,” he hisses.

“Where, dumbass? Your office doesn't exactly lend itself to a rousing game of hide and seek.”

“Figure it out.” 

There's exactly once place, and it's underneath the single piece of furniture sans chairs that Christopher keeps in his sad excuse for an office. Playing the role of dedicated student, you scoop up your clothes and wedge yourself underneath his desk. It should be humiliating, being reduced to a dirty little secret, but being on your knees with his erection staring you in the face is absolutely thrilling. 

One of his thesis students needs him to read over their abstract again before they submit it for consideration. She, you correct; you're pretty sure it's the yoga girl who's head-over-heels for the guy. How that doesn't make her feel gross is beyond you. She's giggling as she answers clarifying questions, and you hear the desktop creak, and God, why is she trying to take your place? 

Professor Arclight sounds sufficiently unimpressed and bored, probably because her thesis is something he's already conducted multiple studies on, because he doesn't have a life outside of work. He makes corrections, she keeps laughing and calling herself 'silly' and other cutesy insults; you nearly gag at the interaction until an idea hits you square in the face. Well, you want it to hit you square in the face, but for now you'll take to pawing at it with a heavy, mindful hand. 

Christopher visibly startles.

“Oh, is everything alright, Doctor Arclight?” Christ, she's such a suck-up. 

“Yes, my apologies. Just a chill.” 

'I'm gonna make it so you're anything but chill, buddy.' You keep working. Christopher tries to sneakily slip his other arm past his desk and move you away, but that just makes it look like he's fondling himself, and he has to stop before this girl gets any other ideas. He's not an idiot, despite what you may think; he knows she has a raging crush on him, and he certainly doesn't want to give her any ideas. His pride is damaged enough, you petting at his dick a strong testament to that fact. 

You take full advantage of your situation and quietly undo both buttons of his slacks (who the fuck uses the interior button?) and stealthily pull at the zipper. He shifts again, and you know full well he's trying to weakly maneuver away and totally realizes this was bound to happen when he banished you to under the desk. His boxer briefs are disturbingly soft, a stark contrast to him as a person. 

“Your explanation of plasmonic arrays is--” Christopher gasps and recovers by clearing his throat. “Perhaps a bit too...” He bites his lips, literally swallowing a moan. “Simplistic.” 

Christopher is also very simplistic – you've literally only touched him a few times, and he's already awkwardly squirming in his chair, pretending something's stuck in his throat, coughing to weakly cover up reality. The girl on the other side of the desk starts to coo and wonder what's wrong, reminding him to take care of himself, and you've had enough of that brown-nosing bullshit. You skip the handjob you'd planned on, throw all light kisses out the window, and take Christopher in your mouth with a long, taunting suck. 

“ _ Thank _ you kindly for your concern!” The words spill forward with an arousal the girl seemingly misses, probably because everyone writing a physics thesis doesn't understand social cues (or sexual cues; whatever you wanna call this display of slutty behavior). You hear the paper in his hands crumple slightly as he hands it back, telling his student to email him the paper next time. After rudely reminding her of his office hours, the door clicks shut, your mouth giving a little 'pop' as you let him go.

When Professor (Doctor) Arclight rolls his chair backward, you grin. When he dips down to scold you for your inappropriate behavior, you grin wider. You grin with such a purpose that he tosses his chair to the side and pulls you out by the shoulders. He's almost angry, but only almost, because you know damn well the look in his eyes says 'please keep sucking me off, I'm lonely and desperate.' The clock reads 2:58pm, and you know he has a class at three. Two whole minutes to get you out of his head. Considering how much he hates you, that's a tall order, even for Mister Stoic himself. 

“You owe me an A.” 

“I owe you nothing of the sort.” He hasn't let go of you yet. You almost don't want him to; almost, because you have standards, and your professor doesn't check any of those boxes. 

“I mean,” you hold up your destroyed flannel, “you do owe me a new shirt, at the very least.” 

Christopher lacks creativity outside of his nerdy laser laboratory on a good day. Today must be a rare great day for him, given the smirk crawling over his face. It's 2:59pm, but since his students' lives revolve around him, he's fine with being late. “I can afford to get you a new one.” 

You snort, shrugging him off and draping what's left of your shirt over your flushed skin. Your mouth tastes of salt; you'll have to rinse really well to get all of today out of your system. “Are you offering to be my sugar daddy? I'm a poor as fuck college student and won't say no.” 

“Four thirty.” 

“Is a time of day, yes.” 

“My office.” He's improving on his recoveries, but still visibly annoyed at your smart-ass remarks. “I'll leave without you otherwise.” 

“What'd my performance get me today?” 

“A D at best.” 

“Yeah it did.” 

He walked into that one, he figures, or he subconsciously set you up for it. Both of those options sound terrible, but he can't come up with another scientific explanation as to why he regrets letting you leave his office. Or why he's desperately hoping you'll come back at 4:30pm. It's the loneliness. Coulomb's Law. 


	2. Methods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methods: This is a single-blind, two participant study to examine how physics principles apply to the concepts of human sexuality. n = 2; Christopher Arclight is a something-or-other white male who oddly identifies as asexual; (Your Name) is a 22 year old female who identifies in no particular manner. Age gap is roughly 5 years and has been deemed to have no impact on results. Study is to be carried out in various pre-planned settings with multiple aids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christopher's good at science and nothing else. You're good at...?

Your watch, your phone, and the clock in the hallway of the science building all lie to you. In no capacity is it 3:40pm. You're busy, you have things to do, and you should be dutifully working on your thesis for hours and losing track of time, having to fast walk to the professor's office to barely make it on time. It's not 3:40pm; you aren't that anxious, or excited, or whatever emotion is making your heart hammer in your chest. Leave and come back, walk some laps around the floor and secretly envy all of the students good at math and science. You want to do anything other than stand here at his door and wait like a lost, stupid puppy – you're not supposed to be this pathetic, but here you are, actually this pathetic. 

“Interesting that you'll arrive late to class most days,” that smug asshole already hovers behind you, leaning down because he knows he has some kind of hold on you, “but have no issue showing up early if it means getting what you want.” 

“I do want a new shirt, I'll give you that.” 

That reminds him to better inspect your outfit of choice, which consists of the same pair of jeans with the distressed holes on the thighs, and... Christopher turns you around by your shoulders and examines you as if trying to pick out the perfect postcard from a rack of low-budget Polaroids. “What on Earth possesses you to wear such gaudy clothing?” 

“I'm 22, broke, and can only afford to shop at thrift stores.” You huff and cross your arms, trying to wordlessly tell him to stop picking apart your replacement t-shirt.

“I can't imagine why somebody would throw away such a beautiful top.” 

“Sorry graphic tees don't scream 'utter refinement' to you, Ralph Lauren.” 

“Tom Ford.” 

“Rich bitch.”

Hellbent on showing you the differences between mid and high-end fashion, Doctor Arclight drives you to an outlet mall you've never been to in his same-year Tesla. You ask him if he's ever jerked it to Elon Musk, and he quite openly states that he really only gets off to erotica written with gender-neutral pronouns. 

“Huh,” you muse idly, “I like your nails.” 

“You're awfully catty.” He spares you a glance since he's wealthy enough to own a self-driving car. Everything he owns and wears screams 'I'm bringing in at least six figures a year, so treat me with respect or don't talk to me at all,' and you kinda hope someone rear-ends him. 

“I mean it. They're nice.” 

“I fully expected you to make a comment about my would-be femininity.” Would-be, because the idea of actually embracing feminine traits means he has to give credit where credit is due. It's astounding how well he's mastered the non-apology too. Finally, something to admire in him.

“Blue nails, blue shirt; I'm more inclined to comment on your need to have everything meticulously match to a painful degree.” 

“I prefer to be as put-together as humanly possible.” 

“You must've hated my lips around your cock.” 

Christopher spares a microscopic shake of his head. “Newton's first law of motion.” 

“Fuck me,” you groan, head against the window, hoping that it'll suddenly crack and whisk you out of the car. “Not everything has to have an answer steeped in your field of study.” 

It does, otherwise Christopher can't have the law and order he needs in his life on any given day. It's part of the reason why he likes taking himself to luxury outlet malls where the sales associates answer to every beck and call without a second thought. They also seem to know and remember him, the man in charge shooting him a quiet greeting and instantly running off to the other side of the store.

“You're well-liked,” you tease, flat and dull.

“They certainly listen better than you do.” 

“Out of fear,” you correct. Pawing through blouses that cost more than your fucking four door sedan feels dirty. Your hands are getting stained with the blood of consumerism, and Christopher doesn't mind swimming in buckets of it. 

“I'd assumed you were afraid of me.” Christopher's admission doesn't lend itself to any emotion, and you're certainly not a psychology major (you did ace intro), but it offers a glimmer of something that almost sounds like an insecurity. You have to squint and put it under a microscope, and don some new glasses, but the flavor's there. 

“Huge nerds with superiority complexes don't scare me.” You're not afraid of them, anyway. Half-truths are better than a lie. Kind of. 

“You made it a point to pass my desk with as much distance between us as possible.” 

“Sure doesn't seem that way anymore, does it?” 

“I intimidate you.” 

“You'd seriously have to try at it.” 

“Is that your consent?” 

Those pesky shivers are creeping down your spine again, heart giving a little leap. Here, in public? You expected an ulterior motive, but fuck, wasn't there something about ethics and banging your students, or something similar? The hair on the back of your neck stands to attention when he rests a few fingers on the small of your back. Christopher has a significantly fancy black low-cut top in his hand when he gazes at you through his perfectly-in-place bangs. Unfortunately, it's the kind of shirt you'd 100% wear on a night out, or a night in if you wanted to impress yourself in the mirror. You want to try it on; he wants you to try it on, too.

No one bats an eye when he shuts the door of the dressing room behind him, quite obviously following you inside. He really doesn't understand the concept of 'shame,' and it shows when he slips his hands underneath your shirt, immediately pulling it over your head and tossing it into the corner. He hopes you'll leave it there, but you're already known for not letting him have his way. 

“Being forward and being intimidating are two separate things, Professor.” 

That only encourages him to tower above you, back straight to emphasize the height difference. To his credit, the way he seems to stare through you does prompt a flicker of fear in both a good and bad way. He doesn't speak, only stepping forward until your back is flush with the wall. There's a mirror hanging on the back of the door; you severely undershot just how wide your eyes could go. 

“Wrong title, Miss (Your Name).” 

You gulp, sound ringing in your ears, senses flooded with the fact that Christopher apparently carries himself with more charm than you initially thought. Turn it off, and he's... well, intimidating. “Sorry, Doctor Arclight.” 

He smirks at the sight of your skin reddening and abandons the idea of you dressing up in the slinky top he picked out for you. “Are you going to listen to me?” 

“Yes.” 

“You'll be on your best behavior for me?” 

“Yes.” 

“You'll ask permission before you act?” 

“Yes...” 

Christopher makes a show of petting your hair with a tenderness lost on your previous lovers. The thought of aftercare is almost as enticing as your current expectations of what's to come. “You're such a good girl when you want to be, Miss (Your Name).” Fuck him and his praise kink to hell and back. His compliments, as half-hearted as they are, spark attraction and another feeling you refuse to put to words. “Jeans off.” 

There's a special kind of difficulty to getting undressed when two startlingly lapis eyes stare back at you, unwavering and intense. He's stripped you of your clothes and your confidence, your ability to even try and give him a show completely lost in favor of submission. You'll bounce back, you tell yourself, and you'll make this space-loving geek regret talking to you this way. If you find your voice again, tongue tied so tightly you can only breathe heavily and pray he'll soften up.

The chatter out in the store fades into the background, Christopher instructing you to spin around so he can get a better look at you. He still has a hypothesis to test, although he fails to piece together whether his arousal is due to your actions, or your appearance. He assumes you're a conventionally attractive 22 year old female, but he can't be sure. Your lingerie is nice, at least, although it gives him a moment's pause.

“I find it hard to believe you find these little get-ups at second-hand stores.” 

“You caught me detective,” you force a sigh and cross your arms, grateful to have bounced back, “I do like spending my hard-earned money on pretty underwear.” 

An invitation, one he writes for himself. “Do you know how to stop that mouth of yours from running off?” 

“I'm capable of being quiet, I suppose.” 

One of his hands cups your breast, the other running a surprisingly gentle finger down your cheek. Professor Arclight specializes in mixed messages, on top of his shitty lectures. He squeezes at your chest, other hand gingerly working its way down your body. “Prove it.” 

Easy enough, you assume. He's a physics professor with an endearing effeminate slant, which lends nothing to his knowledge on female anatomy. You're left to wonder just how many books and articles he crammed into his head before meeting up with you again today, though, because it doesn't take his middle finger long to work its way against your clit. The women you sleep with have zero problem with it, but the men you bring home fumble around aimlessly and eventually give up in favor of getting their dick wet the best they can without proper lubrication. Doctor Arclight continues his streak of proving you wrong. 

Before the moan slips through your lips, Christopher captures them in a harsh kiss, both of his hands still diligently working for those little mewls of pleasure. He's ditched the lipstick in favor of a minty lip balm, which would mean more if you didn't kiss it all away as you nip at his bottom lip. The whisper-quiet groan he gives in reply feeds your desire, as do his fingers. All of that paired with the fact that you can hear another patron entering the dressing room next to yours makes you weak, knees almost buckling in response. 

“Come here,” he whispers in command, flipping you around so he can actually unhook your bra without any help or taunting giggles. Once released, he alternates between gentle grabs and painful pinches, your nipples already quite hard and ready to be fondled. He uses them to pull you back over to the door, pushing you against the mirror face first. Your hands come out to prevent you from getting squished into the glass, and oh, you look downright pathetic. 

“Step out of your panties, Miss (Your Name).” 

You move to follow orders, dodging your own gaze until your professor gives you another long, drawn-out pinch. You can't help the sudden screech, and out of reflex your hand comes up to your lips. You can see him smirking with a darkened chuckle ringing out from his lips. In any other situation, you'd be thinking about taking that stupid braid and choking him out with it, but right now, all you can do is breathe. 

“I want you to see exactly what you look like.” 

Your reflection stares back, wide-eyed and flushed. There's a non-zero amount of sweat on your forehead, despite how chilly it is inside. Your breasts are completely exposed and a little pink from his purposeful grasps, and once you rid yourself of your panties, all you want is for the mirror to fuck right off and shatter into nothing. Trusting a teacher to handle your vulnerability is a tall order, especially when that teacher is Doctor fucking Arclight.

His fingers toss your insecurities out the window in favor of sheer pleasure, shame be damned. It's downright insulting that he continues to make you weak in the knees without taking off any of his clothes. He probably has a stupid rule about needing to score an 80% or better on this assignment before you can dream of taking off his shirt; realistically, you're probably in hot water for trying to suck him off a few hours ago. Quite the stunt, really.

Christopher hits that little bundle of nerves just right, and before he can remind you to be quiet, you let loose with a shuddering moan so high-pitched and sad that you want to crawl out of your skin. Even Christopher's taken aback, if only briefly; thanks to the mirror, you can see the way his brow hits his hairline in response. He wears that signature smirk once again, shakes his head, and clamps a firm hand over your mouth.

“You ought to listen better,” he whispers. “How embarrassing would it be if everyone heard you?” You nod hurriedly, working on steadying your breaths. “If only they could see you... The way you're struggling to keep yourself upright. That oh-so-precious blush on your cheeks.” He's right on all accounts, and you want to hate it. “Your pride must be crushed, hm?” Another hesitant nod, paired with a dry swallow. He pulls his hand away from your sex, and you can't help but whimper in protest. His fingers meet your gaze in the mirror, your thick juices stretching in weak strands as he pulls them apart slowly. “I wish they could see you exactly like this, wet and desperate.” He wants you to agree, and fuck, you can't help but do what he wants. His hand resumes its diligent work, his lips leaving hickeys on your neck, his other hand acting as a thankfully perfect gag against the pleas ripping through your throat. 

Finally, he asks the question you've been dying to hear: “Would you like to come, Miss (Your Name)?” You mumble out an enthusiastic 'mhm' with a rapid, eager nod, eyes painfully wide and alert. He's willing to comply if you follow his lead. “Show me how badly you want it.” 

Your confusion's brief, his non-verbals giving his desires away. The hand atop your lips twitches and tightens, his muscles tense. You have no problem running your tongue over his palm, instantly rewarded with a low groan as he continues to mark your neck. His hands are startlingly soft, and he lets you maneuver just enough to take his little and ring fingers into your mouth. The harder you suck on them, the harder he pushes down on your clit. He won't say it outright, but judging by the hitching breaths, he especially enjoys it when your tongue dips between each finger, when your teeth gently graze his palm...

Doing this in public is a horrible idea. The thrill of being caught isn't worth the impending orgasm, which you can't ask for when his hand's trapped against your lips, fingers wedged deep into your mouth. You try to warn him with a choked cry of 'doctor,' but it's futile. Before you know it, your core tightens, pussy pulsating, your orgasm rocking your body with a rush of fluids cascading against his hand. You make out the whispered 'fuck’ he utters, drawn out and mildly shocked. And you had to watch it all happen, you fucking sad sack of garbage. All for a C in introductory physics. 

You drop Doctor Arclight's hand in favor of panting breaths. His fingers continue to trace feather-light lines over your clit in various shapes, hinting at a strong desire for overstimulation. He'd probably keep going if you hadn't just... Yeah, that... You aren't sure how you're gonna go about cleaning that up.

“You're full of surprises, aren't you Miss (Your Name)?” 

You can't bring yourself to speak, too lost as you stare at the evidence of the orgasm that Christopher Goddamned Arclight caused. 

“Still not the greatest listener, are you?” 

“Fuck you,” you mutter, still panting, “backwards and forwards.” 

“Language, princess.” Chris has no idea where the nickname came from, but judging by the sharp intake of breath and actual factual eye contact you make in the mirror, you like it. “Your insubordination continues to be exhausting.” 

“Oh, right,” you grin, “can I come, Doctor?” 

“You're a bit late.” He makes it a point to wipe his saliva-covered hand across your cheek. You're already plenty humiliated, but the more he does it, the hornier you get. Especially because, once again, his cock is resting against your ass, hot and ready to go. 

“Do you love edging yourself, or am I just not doing it for you?” 

“The former,” he admits, completely shameless. 

“Then hurry up and fuck me.” 

“Not here.” You're surprised when he helps you back into your clothes, batting out wrinkles and buttoning you up where applicable. You're also bothered by just how much nicer he is compared to the previous mistakes you've slept with. He, too, is apparently full of surprises. “You look better in fitted tops. I'll get you a few more.” 

“Uh,” you sputter. “These are way too fucking expensive, and I don't wanna owe you any more than I already do.” 

One of the saleswomen comes knocking in the literal sense, your focus bouncing between the door, Christopher's reflection, and the proud puddle at your feet. Your dreadfully annoying professor smirks and runs a tantalizing nail down your neck as you stutter out that no, you don't need any help, thank you; just staring in wonder at your reflection because you're feeling far too many emotions for one person to handle and sort through. Your old shirt is reduced to a mop after you joke that he can use his hair for the same purpose. 

“If you don't give me an A for that performance--” 

“You didn't listen to any instruction.” 

“I indulged your hand fetish pretty damn well.” 

“Ah, yes,” he feigns excitement, “congratulations on your well-deserved C+, Miss (Your Name).” 

You shrug. “Better than my last test.” 

Unfortunately, Professor Arclight now knows where you live. One of the apartment complexes a few blocks away from campus, the one that financial aid pays for entirely. You doubt he has any idea what it's like to have student loans hover over you, and the only interest rate he's familiar with is the type that comes with return on investment. The last time you spent over a thousand dollars on clothes was approximately never years ago, and he did it tonight without a second thought.

“There's no way a tenured professor makes this kind of money.” 

“An apt conclusion.” 

“I suppose I can't persuade you to come upstairs with me.” 

“Your deductive reasoning is much stronger than your foundations of physics.” 

“I'm not fucking you in your office.” 

“I don't recall saying we'd be in my office.” 

“It's not happening in public again.” 

“It certainly isn't,” he agrees shortly. “I don't have the necessary materials to teach you well if we're in public.” 

Doctor Arclight leaves you with a bag of luxury clothes and a phone number scrawled at the bottom of the receipt, along with the fucking C+ he mentioned on the way home. His arrogance knows no bounds; neither does yours, and you can't help but wonder what he's hiding. At the bright and early hour of two in the morning, post-essay writing session, you down a few glasses of boxed wine and send a text that you don't (and can't) think twice about.

“Just how many alleged hypotheses are you testing?” 

“Your sleep hygiene is immaculate.” 

“Investigating my own theories.” 

“Theories require substantial evidence, (Your Name).” 

No 'Miss.' He's tired, or dropping hints. 

“When do I get to see you again?” 

Time ticks by slower when you're anxiously waiting for a reply. That, paired with the fact that it's truly taken him three times as long to answer this text, makes you feel those pesky feelings that you're getting worse at ignoring. Don't drink and exist, (Your Name). 

“Friday night, if you behave.”

You make a weak promise to yourself to be on your best bratty behavior over the next three days. It's interesting, the way laws of motion apply to the passage of time and feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that poor sales attendant. you're pretty selfish, huh? no wonder you like this guy.


	3. Results?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Results: Inconclusive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't like looking in the mirror anymore.

The teaching assistant for your physics laboratory usually hovers around the front of the room, fantastically awkward and abysmally tongue-tied whenever anyone asks him a question. Professor Arclight takes the other half of the lab, the future physics majors practically tripping over themselves to prove to him that they want to be as smart as him, silently gushing with admiration. Joke's on them, you both know that Chris is rather dumb when it comes right down to it, an unspoken fact that clings to the air each time you speak to each other. No intelligent person would think 'ah, yes, time to fuck the failing student under the guise of saving her grade. That's a good and completely flawless idea. Fuck, I'm smart as hell.' 

You were feeling especially cheeky this morning, slipping into that V-neck peplum top your professor purchased for you in a perplexing shift of events (he's adamant that he doesn't get off on financial domination; the mystery persists). You regret it though, because Doctor Arclight has to be at least three steps ahead of you, as if to constantly remind everyone that he deserves his Mensa membership. Today's lab covers reflections (that sneaky bitch), because giving an intro course of thirty kids a handful of lasers and mirrors isn't a recipe for disaster.

“You look nice.” Your lab partner, the girl with the missing name, suddenly feels the need to make small talk while the two of you shine lasers against mirrors and wonder what the fuck any of this has to do with the real world. “A little overdressed for a lab.” 

“Laundry day.” 

“Not hot for teacher?” 

“Fuck that,” you grumble (you wish). “This class is a big enough mistake as it is.” 

“You hear the rumor about him sleeping with the dean?” 

“I try to block out any reminders of his existence.” 

“They're talking about it on our class page.” 

You let the other girl fiddle around with the multi-color laser lights, nudging your lab notebook over so she can write down the answers for you while you doom-scroll through your graduating class's Facebook page. Despite pretending you're above social media, you're weak for gossip, especially if it involves the guy you're oddly involved with. Between the listings for overpriced textbooks and 'overheard in the west-end library' posts, there's an entry from a dude whose name you don't recognize, Doctor Arclight's name plastered dead center.

_ “anyone else find it super weird that dr arclight is 27 years old and already a prof?”  _

__ _ “That will happen if you suck off the dean every night.” _

__ _ “uhhh no??? heard he was just really smart, like finished his phd two years early”  _

__ Oh, you sweet summer child; logic and reason have no place on a private college campus Facebook page. She's the only one with any sense, apparently: 

_ “the dean's been cheating on his wife for AGES and honestly he picked well”  _

__ _ “I mean, if Prof Arclight offered to suck my dick, I'd have a hard time saying no, no matter how straight I am.”  _

__ _ “I've seen him sneak away to hi--”  _

__ Your phone is suddenly ripped out of your hand, and you consider bitching the thief out, but the long pale fingers with ruby red nail polish serve as a firm reminder to keep your mouth shut. 

“No cell phones in my lab, Miss (Your Name).” 

“Didn't know my backpack also counted as a phone,” you glare, watching him sling the bag over his forearm only to slide it under his desk at the front of the lab. He takes to shuffling through drawers and filing cabinets, blatantly ignoring your look that says 'hey asshole, that's theft; aren't you supposed to be lawful neutral or something equally boring?' There's a recommendation about not hitting people in the eye with lasers because it'll cause blindness or something equally overblown, but you're willing to test that idea out if he ever decides to meet your eye again.

You're content to copy your partner's work, putting faith in her ability to understand light bouncing off of whatever the hell a mirror is made out of (you missed the bit about what kind of glass). Between scribbling out numbers and pictures and praying for the sweet release of death, someone (three guesses who) stands across from you, proudly holding up a mirror. 

“What am I looking at, Miss (Your Name)?” 

He probably decides to speak loudly on purpose, and you hate him for it. Having a sea of eyes on you puts you in the spotlight in a bad way, and he feeds off of the attention like a glutton bloated on the degradation of others. Short of having a hand on your head, he's forcing you to stare at yourself, reminders of the previous night flooding your synapses with shame and a hit of dopamine. You forgot to brush your hair, your lips are a little chapped, and you grow pinker and hotter the longer you stare at yourself.

“Uh... Me...?” 

“What are you, Miss (Your Name)?” He's running out of patience. He gets off on it, and you want to keep him in the spotlight with you for as long as possible. You don't give a flying fuck what the kids in class think of you, snickers and whispers aside. Doctor Arclight, however, wants to be worshiped, and you're willing to bet that some of his faithful students would lose some respect for him should he sport a hard-on in the middle of the lab. (Actually, it'll probably just give them another reason to get on their knees and praise him. Never know unless you try.)

“I don't know what you're implying, sir.” 

Doctor Arclight's lips twitch, torn between reminding you what he prefers to be called, and accepting that he actually enjoys hearing you call him 'sir.' “I have minimal tolerance for laziness and cheating.” You're not a cheater, you want to profess, but the closer he gets, the hotter you feel. He puts the mirror down, leans over your table, the end of his braid brushing over your notebook. “Don't,” he hisses, and you're pretty sure your classmate can still hear him, “give me reason to fail you outright.”

It's curious, really, and you're left red-faced and wondering if he's referring to the assignment, or to the close proximity you have with the other student. She's admittedly cute, especially when she's coming to your rescue in an attempt to soothe your embarrassment (and hot when she shoots down the infuriating double-majors who claim you're the shining example of why women aren't good at science). 

You wait for everyone else to leave before tossing your notebook at Christopher like a frisbee, finding joy when it knocks over a rack of laser pointers. “Wanna tell me why you took all my shit?” 

“To eliminate distractions,” he answers simply. 

“I don't think it's cheating if I'm working with my partner.” 

“It certainly sounds like it.” Christopher goes out of his way to painstakingly reorganize the tools you knocked over, surprised at the lack of offense he's taking in the moment. 

You click your tongue at the realization, a scoff of a laugh puffing from your lungs, because Jesus Christ, you're gonna spiral into a deeper depression if you spend any more time thinking about this. “What does that even matter?” 

“The implication that you don't hold yourself to a high standard--”

“I don't even know her name, dumbass.” 

“I wasn't done talking, Miss (Your Name).” 

“You're gonna let me talk,” you insist with clenched teeth. He dodges your accusatory gaze, looking weirdly phased, probably because he has you pinned as a weak little girl with a love of being told what to do. In an effort to let him know that you mean business, and to play into the cliches he not-so-secretly lusts for, you yank his (really pretty, ew) red tie out from underneath his vest and give it a sharp tug. Watching him lose balance and catch himself with his noodle-like arms has you wishing for Friday. “I don't appreciate the implication that I'm so without standards that I'll cheat on anyone for the likes of you.” 

Christopher matches your glare with ease and tries to push himself up. His arms are weighed down with a special kind of weakness that he never once pictured himself having, especially not in the middle of his classroom. “You're crossing quite a few boundaries, Miss (Your Name).” 

“I'm doing all of this,” you swoop in closer, foreheads nearly touching because it looks intimidating in movies, “so I can graduate on time. I need a passing grade, and you're gonna give it to me.” 

Your professor raises a taunting brow, slipping his fingers underneath yours to free his tie and take back the control he desperately needs. “Is that all?” 

You respond by letting go, per his silent request, and immediately give his (silky?) braided hair a strong jerk downward. He falters and fails to stifle a gasp, and for a split second, you see his yearning for you rekindled in the way his lips part with an unsaid request. “That's all, and I want to make sure you're on the same page.” 

“Without question.”

Something nags at you, telling you not to believe him, so you switch gears. “Do you like it when I pull your hair, you sick fuck?” 

“Not in the least.” So you pull on it again, and despite his stiff upper lip, you hear the beginnings of a lust-ridden moan in the back of his throat. 

“Now who's being a spoiled brat?” You sneer, wrapping his hair around your palm in a tight coil. “You or me?” 

“You.” 

“You have no respect for me, do you?” 

“I do.” 

“Show me just how much you respect me then.” You stare him down, finally having obtained the higher ground. His adamsappel bobs in reply; you really want to choke him, but you're a restrained dominant woman with a firm belief in safe words and established contracts. “Show me, Christopher.” 

It's your fault for provoking him. It's your fault for calling him by a name that he seemingly wants to keep you as far away from as humanly possible. A power play covering up a glaring sore spot, you figure, as if you're someone well-versed in social sciences. It's your fault that Christopher / Doctor Arclight has swooped in to take your lips in his own, long torso leaning over the desk as his hands try to pull you over the desk. You push his limbs away and give his braid another pull, reminding him that he's beneath you, and not the other way around. 

“You finally gonna tell me why you took my shit earlier?” You grumble against his lips, teeth scraping against his flesh. 

“Only to do the opposite,” he breathes, flustered to find that his voice fails him. 

“I'm getting real sick of your riddles and quizzes, you nerdy fuck.” 

“Who's the one acting without respect now, Miss--?” 

“Don't you fucking start,” you warn with a parting kiss. Miss (Your Name) this, Miss (Your Name) that, fuck, he needs to be knocked down a peg. “I'm gonna let you go just long enough to lock the door and hit the lights. You're going to wait for me to come back, and when I do,” you're level with his eyes once more, “you're going to do your goddamned best to convince me that you're not a self-centered piece of shit.” 

Christopher knows how to listen and be on his best behavior; he must, considering his stuffy mannerisms that he likely didn’t just pull out of his ass (far too unrefined for him). A piece of him wants to defy you, take charge in this situation and remind you that he's the one holding your future in his hands, but at the same time... Being in control all the time, fighting everyone around him for power, it all gets to be too exhausting. It's a wonder he lived with his family until six months ago. 

“Get on your back,” you instruct, clipped and to the point. You poke at the floor with the toe of your six year old slip-on Vans, holding up a hand when he opens his mouth, likely to protest. “Your back, Christopher.” 

He hates every second of his existence in this moment. If he's lucky, the floor will collapse inward and swallow him whole, but the statistical likelihood of that happening is slim to none. Right up there with the chances of his atoms rearranging in such a way that he phases through the ground, glitch in the physics matrix style. The floor's scuffed and made of an unforgiving ceramic tile, and he dies a little when he has to bunch up his blazer to form a makeshift pillow. 

“We're gonna get straight to the point.” You stand above him, legs on either side of his chest. Making him quite literally look up at you fills you with a faux power that almost encourages you to go to graduate school and become a professor yourself, but you don't hate yourself enough to do that just yet. “You get five minutes to shower me in unbridled respect, or I'm taking the F.” 

“How would you like me to do that?” He can't force his voice any louder; he's as weak as the whisper on his lips, and you fucking love it. His chest rises and falls with anticipation and torment; you almost want to leave him here, and he can see it in you as you make no motion to move. “Miss--”

“Just (Your Name).” 

Once he repeats your name, you take your cue and slip out of your jeans in record time, panties following suit. Your aim rings true; you find a sliver of amusement and far too much arousal when your underwear lands on his face, and if it weren't for what you were about to do, you'd probably shove them down his throat. You sit on his chest, briefly, reminding him that he has “five minutes, Christopher. That clear?”

Christopher left his pride somewhere on the floor, probably around the area where you threw your jeans. “If you could provide me with more instruction, (Your Name)...” 

It's impressive just how often he reminds you that he has minimal experience with women in both a sexual and relational sense. Any straight dude could read your signals without someone holding their hand, but Christopher seems to need the additional one-on-one help (and you're the one who needs the tutoring – whatever you say, Professor). Surely there's something that says physics and physicality go hand in hand, but unlike him, you can't think of any laws to wittily name off in the moment. You're a bit more forward, opting instead to sit on his face, the only hint you can think to give him. 

“That enough instruction, Christopher?” 

“Mm,” he nods, breath hot against your sex. “Mhm.” 

“Help me get off, Christopher.” 

The lights in the physics lab stay off, weak rays of sun peeking through the single window in the center of the room, curtains shut because lasers fear daylight, or maybe that's just Christopher and his weirdly vampiric skin. It's getting late, and instead of heading home for the day, you're riding your professor's face on the floor of his ugly lab after an especially ugly lesson in self-confidence. You rock your hips, taking pressure off of your calves and letting your center of gravity shift (see, you know physics things). Christopher's hands have come up to your thighs, eventually shifting to your ass, giving little squeezes and grabs because he's spent all of his life keeping his hands to himself, and he's tired of it. You reward him with forced little moans that make him mirror your sounds in an annoyingly tantalizing manner. 

“Are you enjoying this, Christopher?” 

“Mhm.” The vibrations hit your clit and prompt an actual moan, first from you, then from him.

“Have you done this before?” 

“Mm-mm.” His tongue shifts up and down your slick slit before dancing around your clit again, head shaking, nose gasping for air.

“Tell me how much you like it.” 

He mumbles against your pussy, and as expected, you don't understand a damn word he says, each syllable muffled. You assume he's as cerebral as ever, the way his eyebrows suddenly shift downward.

“You're gonna have to speak up,” you grin through shallow breaths.

Christopher has enough of your games and nips at you with his front teeth. You yelp, hiss sharply, and squeeze his head with your thighs. The long, guttural moan he frees from within sends waves of pleasure and self-righteous lust through your body, core tensing. 

“You actually like this, don't you?” 

“Mhm.” Strange – he sounds relieved, a little nasal sigh as this tongue works itself against you, lapping at you with increasing motivation.

“Do you love it when I tell you what to do?” 

“Mhm.” That's more what you expected – a resigned admission sprinkled with a little shyness. 

“Are you gonna make me regret this later?” 

He tries to laugh. “Mhm.” 

Good. “Make me come, Christopher.” 

Yeah, this loser has definitely read some kind of journal article, or blog post, maybe even a reddit thread on how to give a girl oral. He's been following the bullet points: kiss at your thighs, tease all the other areas he can reach, build up a rhythm when he licks and sucks at your clit, pause to give you wet and sloppy kisses... If you didn't like it so rough and direct, there might be an issue, but he seems to... Well, he doesn't know you, but he sure can pretend. Christopher responds to your moans in all the right ways that tell him to keep going, and you're willing to bet all two hundred dollars to your name that he so desperately wants to deny you right now, but he can't. 

If you had any respect for him, you'd stand up before your orgasm strikes. Maybe it's because you respect him that you stay seated, content to breathe heavily and squirt all over his face. It's not as much of a gush by comparison, but enough to trickle down his cheeks, hit his forehead, and test the resilience of his waterproof eyeliner. His little 'mmph!' and subsequent 'oh, God' gives you a weak, residual whisper of an orgasm as you slide back down to his chest. His shirt and tie will get wet, but he deserves it after what happened to that dressing room at Saks. 

When he finally gets a breath of fresh air, it looks as if Christopher has smeared extra blush over his neck and cheeks, three shades too bright for his pale skin. He sounds a little melodramatic with how much air he's taking in, little sputters here and there evidence of your orgasm. If you shift to sit on his stomach and dip a hand behind you, yep, he's hard. His breath audibly hitches and oh, he's raising his hips off the ground ever so slightly, enough to tell you he wants more but not so much that he comes off as needy or too terribly horny. 

“You try way too hard to keep it together,” you chastise, continuing to pet him through his dress pants. He's average, maybe a little girthy, and very warm. Hot. Hot for teacher, you slut? “How long has it been for you, anyway?” 

“Since...?” The way he looks up at you through lazy, barely open eyes ignites those instincts that you don't want to entertain outside of a relationship. Christopher needs a caretaker, yes, but not you. You barely know how to pilot a sack of blood and bones. 

“Since you last came.” 

A lazy shrug. “Four weeks, there about.” 

“You've been edging yourself for four weeks?” You balk. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“I'm rather patient with myself.”

“That explains so much.” 

“I'm not sure what you're implying--!” He gasps, sharply, exhaling with a vocal breath. Your hand has dipped underneath his underwear, grabbing him with a purpose, pumping him slowly. “W-What--?” 

“Aww,” you smirk, “look at you, losing all that composure.” 

“Not yet.” 

“Hm?”

Christopher squirms underneath your grasp, lacking the core strength to push you off. He borders on thrashing about when you grip him a bit harder, your thumb rubbing pre-cum across his tip. “Wait,” he breathes. “Tomorrow, please.” 

“You sure?” He nods, but isn't using his arms in any capacity to get you to stop. He hasn't told you to stop, either. He wants this. He wants to be teased. “God, you're such a slut.” 

He moans, and still isn't moving to get you to stop.

“Is that right, Doctor?” You coo treacly and aggressively, still jerking him off. “You're a desperate little boytoy, aren't you?” He keeps nodding; it isn't enough. “Tell me. Convince me to stop.” 

“I-I--” Fuck, you're loving the way he's lost control. Mister High and Mighty, his way or the highway, brought to his knees (well, his back) by you and only you. He's blushing heavily, panting aggressively, writhing beneath your weight. “I'm desperate.” 

“You can do better.” 

“I'm,” he's practically sweating, “I'm a desperate little boytoy.” He's reaching climax simply saying it aloud. He doesn't want it yet. “Please, (Your Name), let me wait. I'm begging you.” 

“Yeah you are,” you agree with a grin, slowing your roll. “Tell me what you are, one last time.” 

“I'm whatever you need me to be.” 

“Are you my sweet, doting professor who hangs on my every whim?” 

“Yes, I am.” He swallows, head falling further against his jacket. “Now please, (Your Name).” 

“Are you a cute little switch who's finally willing to admit that I'm just as worthy of respect as you are?” 

“Undoubtedly,” he says hurriedly, and you finally relent, bringing him down hard and fast. His bangs are plastered to his forehead, either by sweat or your own juices, and his lips are dry from all the breathy panting and moaning. You lean down to give him one long, weirdly soft kiss, and fuck, you're an idiot. You're using your nails to push his bangs out of his eyes, caressing his beautifully pink cheek in a cupped hand, running your thumb just below his eye.

God. Damn it.

“Good boy,” you whisper. “Such a good listener.” 

He huffs, and smiles. His back is sore, his ass hurts after being pressed against the floor for so long (the longest eight minutes of his life), and he's too tired to push you away. Besides, he likes the way your hand feels against his face, and you look pretty in the shirt he bought you. 

The way he's staring at you makes your gut churn in a bad way. “Don't tell me you've overdosed on oxy.” 

“Codone?” 

“Tocin, you dumbass.” 

You both knew what you were referring to, regardless. Like the good mistress you are, you help him to his feet, cleaning him up the best that you can, offering an apology for the mess even if he seems to like it. Goodbyes continue to be awkward, and your backpack feels heavier when you leave. You assume it's the weight of your guilt and mistakes, but upon inspection... Yeah, just physical forms of your mistakes, really. All dumped out on your bed for you to snap a photo to send to Christopher, er, Professor, Doctor Arclight. 

“I take it you have instructions for me.” 

“The vibrator has a magnetic clip and works with whatever you prefer to wear.” 

“Did you take notes on my sizes?” 

“In the dressing room, yes. Put them on in the morning. Any other questions, Miss (Your Name)?” 

Ah, back to where you started. Excellent. You were getting tired of trying to break him. Which is exactly why your next text is trying to achieve the exact same thing. You think you're pretty sly after a couple shots and straight A's on all your humanities midterms.

“Yeah, one. What has you so over-controlled?” 

“I'm not sure what you mean.” 

“The power struggles and refusal to pleasure yourself. What gives?”

Two for two on asking big questions with equally big pauses. Sometimes you forget he's your professor, no matter how frequently he reminds you of that fact. It's been three days, going on four, when you realize that he's also a person. 

“Something to do with Murphy's Law.” 

Yeesh. Time to pump the brakes. You're his student, not his therapist. Or his mother. (You want to be one of those things, but it's the oxy talking again. You're sure of it.)

“Heyyyy, I've heard of that one. Weird to think that it's ever applied to you.”

“We seem to have a bit in common, Miss (Your Name).” 

You were going to make a one-off joke about how his performance today deserved a B at best, but the conversation has taken a turn, and you're far more comfortable putting your phone on your nightstand and forgetting about the pile of mistakes littered throughout your room. As you fall asleep, you wonder what Doctor Arclight's bedroom looks like, a firm reminder of your ongoing struggle with self-hate and bad life decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that'll teach him, you hope.


	4. Discussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussion: Study was deemed inappropriate by IRB standards and therefore cannot be published due to ethical concerns. An independent, non-peer reviewed journal will pick it up instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Informed consent paperwork has never been so exciting.

Class always starts at 1:00pm, never 12:59 or 1:01. The guilt of not doing your actual physics homework in preparation for Friday's unit review has you knocking on Professor Arclight's open office door a little past 8:00am. He gave you plenty of lingerie and toys when he took your backpack, and stupidly kept your textbook; it's likely planned, knowing just how badly he needs to have the upper hand at all times. Casual Friday has him sporting a fitted button-down with half-sleeves in a steely blue-gray shade, another astronomy-themed earring dangling next to his braid, and you haven't actually knocked yet, because you're getting soft. When you do make your presence known, he doesn't look up, far too engrossed in whatever article he's writing for the Journal of Cosmology and Astroparticle Physics. JCAP has a grand total of ten readers who haven't dedicated their lives to academia, making it especially prestigious. 

“Yes?”

“You have my textbook.” 

“Oh, Miss (Your Name). Come in.” 

Something's not right here. Doctor Arclight actually stops typing in favor of making prolonged eye contact with you, without glaring or chastising you for interrupting his important work, and swivels around to a shelf to retrieve your text. He even hands it off to you without complaint. He doesn't call you a lazy little girl or berate you for forgetting to do your homework. 

“Uh...” You take your book, shove it into your backpack, and really wish you were back home already. It's too early in the morning for this, or anything else. “Are you--?” 

Someone else knocks at the door in a way that demands attention and respect. Old white men like to pretend they're banging on a drumset when they tell you they're coming in whether you like it or not. You have no idea who this guy is, but you like his ugly argyle tie. He takes himself far too seriously; you deduce that he's another physics professor, given the dead stare in his eye.

“Professor Wyatt,” Christopher greets. The way his posture self-corrects in minute shifts, the tiny smile he puts on, the I'm-so-happy-to-see-you vocal tone... Professor Wyatt must be the department head. Or Christopher has a huge crush on him, but Wyatt’s easily the poster child for 55 and over communities. If Christopher ever had a thing for his own dad, he could live out the fantasy with this guy, but you hope his need for familial acceptance doesn't run in that deep of a fucked up line.

“Just stopping by to check in on the...” He starts running his mouth about some kind of special lab equipment and paper proposal, which morphs into a discussion on the current state of the faculty's mental health and lack thereof. Apparently they're all pressed for time, working to get things done before grant deadlines, except for Doctor Arclight, who's currently getting praised by the physics department's resident proud papa figure. You're scrolling through Instagram when his tone changes. “I've noticed one of your students has taken to focusing less on her work and more on... personal affairs.” They're talking about the thesis student in your yoga class. They both hate her, apparently. 

“Her research is progressing along fine, although--” 

“It would do you good to keep her in line.” Jesus Christ, you've found someone you hate more than Christopher Arclight. A quick inspection of his folded hands confirms that Professor Wyatt is thankfully unmarried. “You might consider dressing down in an attempt to quell her... interest. The unspoken appears to be lost on her.” 

Jesus tapdancing Christ. You might suck at physics, but you have a great grasp on the physics department as people. Professor Wyatt is quite obviously a cis-het white male that really and truly deserves to be choked out with the tie he wears only on Fridays as a homage to the brave woman who rightfully divorced this man. He leaves, and your resting bitch face shifts into an active bitch face.

“The fuck is his problem?” You grumble after double-checking that his back is completely out of sight and out of mind. 

“Professor Wyatt is rather concerned about the success of the department.” 

“Okay, sure,” you shrug. “He's also a Grade A dickhead, and I don't know why you're defending him.” 

Christopher likes to flaunt his knowledge when given the chance, and when you present him with the perfect opportunity for an overly-detailed explanation, he falls silent. You watch him poke at a few keys on his laptop, his hand coming up to his neck to re-center the onyx pendant draped over his chest.

“Knock it off, Christopher,” you sigh, your words more than enough to get him to drop his hands to his desk and away from the clasp of his jewelry. “Who gives a fuck what the walking crypt keeper thinks?” 

“It's nothing to do with that.” He keeps the necklace on, at least.

“It's everything to do with that, and you know it.” 

Christopher folds his hands together and leans his forearms against his desk. It's the most skin he's exposed in the time that you've known him, and it's frustrating just how easily your brain shifts into sex mode despite the serious undertones of the situation. The temperature in the room sinks to below freezing when he looks at you with icy blue eyes. “Interesting that you, of all people, are lecturing me about self-respect.” 

You assume he's speaking with the realization that you've never once texted him while completely sober. Maybe it's the way you carry yourself with faux confidence and an unbearable cloud of man-made, fake it 'til you make it energy, hints of bourbon wafting about. You weren't expecting him to call your bluff just yet, so you bury your hands into your hoodie pocket and start to walk out of the office. Leave your self-assured pep-talk at the door, (Your Name); he needs it more than you, because you refuse to be beneath him outside of bed. “I'm gonna go study for what I'm assuming will be your weekly review-slash-quiz.” 

“Arrive on time today, Miss (Your Name).” 

You don't, albeit unintentionally. You fell asleep at home, woke up thirty minutes before class, stopped for coffee that you really can't afford, and made it to the lecture hall at 1:05pm. Doctor Arclight might not let you take the quiz, but it sounds like it hasn't happened yet. Maybe if you can silently slip through the door...

“...light scattering depends on the size of the particles in comparison to each wavelength, and welcome, Miss (Your Name)!”

Oops.

“How kind of you to join us five minutes past the start of lecture,” Professor Arclight beams with fierce sarcasm paired with a sadistic smile. He makes a show of pausing his PowerPoint, clearing off a space in the center of the classroom surrounded by a huddle of guys all wearing a variant of video game graphic t-shirts or an ugly polo. “Take your seat, Miss (Your Name). I'm certain you don't mind sitting among your classmates today, considering how often your tardiness demands the attention of my class.” 

A mixture of snickering and bitten lips surround you in an attempt to humiliate you as you take your seat. No one sits to either side of you, but two chairs down, a dude shakes his head and mumbles something you can't hear; you assume he's berating you, calling you stupid, and he's not wrong. Professor Arclight returns to the front of the class, attention still on you. You will the Goof Troop to go back to fawning over their favorite professor, but they can't read minds (because they're not actually that great). Everyone's still staring or taking peeks at you while Christopher flips to the next and final review slide. 

“Since you clearly don't need the review, Miss (Your Name), would you mind explaining the index of refraction values to the class?” 

Fuck if you know. You fell asleep on your textbook while studying, and as luck would have it, your cheeks didn't absorb the words for you to refer to at will. “Um...” You bite your lip, Doctor Arclight staring intently through you, tapping an impatient finger against his arm. “It's a number that...” Everyone's looking at you, some failing to quiet their giggles. Your face grows hotter with each passing second, especially when Christopher takes to motioning you to continue with a twirling hand. “Indicates how much... Faster...?” Nope, slower; you're able to infer that when Nerdy Nelson to your right snorts loudly and shoves his face in his hands. “Something about the speed particles take to—ah!” 

As it turns out, the remote in Christopher's hands controls both his slides and the vibrator latched to your panties. The pulses hit hard before fading to a slow, light rhythm, your muscles twitching as you wriggle in your chair. The explanation of the index of whatever projects prominently on the whiteboard, and you can't be bothered to commit it to memory.

“Perhaps you should make it a point to prioritize lectures over your caffeine consumption, Miss (Your Name).” 

Your professor goes on to explain the final concepts of the week before instructing everyone to navigate to the classroom portal and load up today's quiz. The laptops are provided by the department to ensure that no one can cheat – the professors remote in and watch everyone cry internally as they fail to answer questions correctly. Sadists, all of them. 

You quirk a brow and sneak a look over the top of your computer, your quiz presumably different from the others. It's locked, invite-only, and reads “Week 7: Light and Reflections.” Click, click, agree to not cheat, start.

_ 1) True or False: You prefer having the lights on. _

Your breath hitches. Christopher remotes in; you see his cursor circling the point count off to the side. You mark 'true,' and Christopher updates your score for the question: 1/1. This crafty low-life loser has gone out of his way to write an entire quiz about your preferences in preparation for taking you back to his place, and you want to hate it, but it's really fucking hot. It doesn't help that the vibrator wedged against your clit continues to give low, on-and-off pulses, relentlessly teasing you with slow waves of pleasure.

_ 2) True or False: You enjoy seeing your reflection, but only in mirrors. _

__ False; there's nothing wrong with photography. (1/1) That cheeky motherfucker must feel so goddamned proud in this moment.

_ 3) Short Answer: Reflect on your thoughts regarding Doctor Arclight. _

He's alright. Doctor Arclight can watch as you type, and he turns off the vibrator entirely. You bite back a whine, visibly pout for a split second, and erase your previous answer in favor of what he likely wants to hear: Doctor Arclight has been a wonderful professor. We seem to have a lot in common. I like looking at him and hearing him talk. I want him to teach me more. (He only gives you a 3/5 for that, and adds a comment in jest: “I expect better from you, Miss (Your Name). You'll have to earn it back.”)

_ 4) Refer to the attached material and check all boxes truthfully and to the best of your ability. Failure to return this attachment will result in failure of the course.  _

It's not a contract; he hasn't read 50 Shades of Gray, thank God, but he's one kinky-ass bitch. The document in question consists of checkboxes asking you to confirm whether or not you're okay with certain actions in bed. It's literally titled 'informed consent' at the top, because no matter how attracted you are to this guy, he's still a huge fucking geek; you're getting tired of trying to convince yourself that you don't date nerds. You fill out the attachment and upload it. Today you learn that Christopher Arclight has a rape fantasy. So do you, and you're going to trust him with that information, because again, you can't make good decisions. 

_ 5) True or False: You're okay with spending the night. _

__ True; you better have some godly aftercare abilities. (2/1; “I'll take care of you, Miss (Your Name).”) The vibrator hums to life almost silently, and you squirm. Not just because that feels so fucking good, and not just because the guy to your left has an idea of what's going on, but because you're desperate for him to take care of you. You're pretty messed up.

6 _ ) Short Answer: Are you certain that this is something you want to do, and if so, can you guarantee that there are no feelings involved? Please explain why or why not. _

Yes and yes. I want you to fuck me really fucking badly, and I have no love in my heart for you. You're too arrogant, annoying, and generally the worst. Can you tell me the same? (5/5; “Yes.”) 

You wonder if you're lying. You wonder if he's lying. This is why students don't fuck their professors. This is why professors are held to the standard of not sleeping with their students. You're both disasters in your own right, and when you turn in your quiz, Doctor Arclight reminds you just how much of a disaster you are by turning the vibrator up and texting you to 'put on a show' for him. You entertain him with constant bites to your lip, dipping your head to the desk, writhing in your chair, and telling the other student to kindly fuck off when he asks what's wrong with you. 

He texts you, and you see him sitting cross-legged and clearly aroused. It's a secret only you know; you're getting familiar with his nonverbal tells. “I expect you to ask, Miss (Your Name).” 

“Fuck me can I come??” 

“I believe I said you had to ask. Get creative, Miss (Your Name).” 

You swear to yourself that you're capable of ignoring the sweet, blissful vibrations against your clit, but you can't. Christopher realizes what you're trying to do and increases the intensity, makes the pulses longer, and ever so slightly leans forward when you hide your face in your hands. Your panties are unmistakably wet, you can't focus on anything other than the impending orgasm... Swallow the moans, swallow your pride. You raise your hand.

“Yes, Miss (Your Name)?” 

The blush overtakes your entire face. The guy next to you knows exactly what's going on and you can see him adjust his cargo shorts. Everyone else has looked up from their quiz. “I-I need help, Doctor Arclight.” 

“I'm afraid I can't offer any help during an exam.” 

“I can't...” The vibrator's permanently on and ever-increasing in intensity. “The page won't load. I really need… your help.” 

“I see,” Christopher hums, tapping away at his laptop at the front of the class. “See if that helps, Miss (Your Name).” 

Professor Arclight remotes back into your laptop, pulls up a notepad file, and types: “Quietly.” Easier said than done, but you finally allow yourself reprieve and close your eyes, riding out the waves of pleasure as your vaginal walls contract and twitch. As if on cue, right as you on the verge and tipping past the point of no return, the vibrator shuts off. You huff, loudly, an irritated groan you can't hide coming into fruition. 

“Is something wrong, Miss (Your Name)?” 

Yes, you just ruined my fucking orgasm. I've been nursing that for the last twenty minutes. I know you get off on denying me what I want, but fuck, that's cruel. “Just frustrated, sir.” 

“Perhaps you should have studied harder.” 

You nearly flip him off. Nearly, stopping when your neighbor ogles at you with a whispered “what the fuck?” You take to your phone, tapping wildly and needing to correct a disgusting number of typos. 

“The guy next to me is getting off on this. Hope you're happy.” 

He's not. He sees what you're talking about, because Christopher knows everything. Especially when he knows to look for a sneaky arm twitching up and down in an unmistakable masturbatory motion. Something snaps, a tight coil in his chest, and Christopher can't stop himself from rushing to your rescue. There's an indignance there, the thought of someone else playing with you disgusting him to his core, making him question every piece of his value system. He demands the student’s attention, booming in authority; everyone jumps. He tells the kid if he’s not finished with the quiz in the next sixty seconds, he’s failing. The creepy student’s scared into submission and leaves you alone, eyes fixed on his screen. (Who are you to judge though?)

“Thanks,” you text. 

“I won't tolerate anyone showing you disrespect.” 

“Just you, right?” 

“Me and only me.” 

This is so fucked up, but you don't care anymore. Who cares if he's a huge nerd, who cares if he's socially inept, who cares if there's some form of trauma-bonding happening behind the scenes? You have someone who's finally giving you the attention that you crave, and all you care about right now is willing the clock to fast forward so Christopher can take you home, away from the reality you keep avoiding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you did it. you signed the papers, and you're ready. you are ready, right?


	5. Limitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Limitations: The results of this study cannot be applied to anyone other than the participants. It's a bad study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get fucked by your professor. You wanted this.

Sneaking out to Christopher's car becomes second nature, even though you've only needed to do it twice. You wait until a little past four, bump into him at his office, pretend to talk about class as you walk across the least busy part of campus, and duck into his car before anyone seems to notice, even if you're super obvious. He has you wait in the building all afternoon post-class, just to make sure you can't squeeze in a sneaky orgasm or two. You're losing your mind with all the push and pull, voicing your frustrations once you're in the passenger's seat.

“You've been fucking with me for three hours,” you grumble bitterly. “I will beg and plead and cry if it means I can come here and now.” 

Christopher smirks and passes you a black, silky something. “Patience, Miss (Your Name).” 

You scowl, slip the blindfold on, and follow your professor's instruction to relax and get comfortable. He lives an entire half an hour from campus, much to your dismay, but he bends over backwards to make sure you're not overwhelmed. Tell him to turn up the heat, and he asks how high. Complain that it's too quiet, and he asks what music you want on. Admit that you're feeling a little touch-starved, and he takes advantage of the self-driving car and runs his hand through your hair.

“You confuse me sometimes, Doctor.” 

“I've admittedly heard that before,” he mutters, almost vulnerable, his manicured nails scratching at your neck. “I take it I send mixed messages.” 

“Insanely scrambled messages, yeah. Like right now.” 

“Would you like me to be more straightforward?” He asks and instantly switches to whisper-light touches across your neck. You jerk away with surprising force and screech with a giggle. Christopher smirks, proud that he can elicit such sweet reactions, and expertly dodge tricky subjects that aren't physics-based. “I seem to recall you checking 'yes' next to tickle torture, am I wrong?” 

“The fact that you do everything by the book,” you catch your breath, grounding yourself once more, “is so fucking annoying.” 

To add insult to injury, Doctor Arclight flips the vibrator back on, then off, then on again, like he can't figure out what fucking channel he wants to watch because he doesn't spend any meaningful time in front of the television. You jump, squirm, groan, complain that you've been dying to fucking come for hours; he turns it up, you throw your head back, and oh God--!

“Oh dear,” he sighs, grinning with a streak of sadism in response to your loud, whimpering groan of protest. “My hand appears to have slipped. Sincerest apologies, Miss (Your Name).”

“Fuck you,” you whine, curling up in your seat for dramatic effect. “I'm going to make your life a living hell if you keep this up.” 

“I'm interested to see you try, considering your current position.” 

“Just let me come.” The car takes a slow, wide turn, and you're off the highway. You know the city well – Christopher likely lives out in the middle of white people nation, aka upper class suburbia in the hills on the outskirts of town. 

“Not yet,” he whispers, pulling your hair out from underneath the blindfold. Delicate, soft; you want the hard dom energy back. “Although I deeply enjoy your cute, pouty submissive side.” 

“You said you'd make me regret this.” 

Professor Arclight does, in fact, make you regret this. You regret it the moment you take your blindfold off in his bedroom; it's bigger than your entire 850-dollars-a-month apartment, and ten times as luxurious. “God, you're such a spoiled prick.” 

“So you've said.” 

“I can't pay for new sheets if they get fucked up.” 

Christopher insists he can buy new bedding if push comes to shove, offers you a glass of water (“Can't ask for wine?” “You can't consent with alcohol on board.”), and locks his bedroom door for the added effect of extra privacy. You try to get comfortable while he retreats to the bathroom for a moment, shower running briefly, probably because he's a huge germaphobe, and comes back weirdly dry. He checks in on your understanding of safe words, does the whole doting dom thing that you actually appreciate, and strangely asks if you like the outfit you're wearing.

“You got it for me. What's wrong with it?” 

He responds by pulling you into him by the hem of your shirt, starting down at you, and ripping the shirt from the neckline down. You gasp and shudder, in awe over how suddenly violent he's become (conveniently left out of his fancy fill-in form/quiz you took); you want him to turn the vibrator back on, but you're in no position to ask any favors. 

“What are you here for, Miss (Your Name)?” Doctor Arclight takes your chin in his hand, nails digging into your neck in a way that makes you squirm and moan. It's his fault for edging you for hours on end; you aren't sure how he’s put up with it for four weeks. You're staring back into his admittedly beautiful eyes, feeling weak and small and everything you want to feel in the confines of the bedroom. 

“A passing grade in physics, Doctor Arclight.” 

“Are you ready to listen to instruction and do as you're told?” 

“Yes, Doctor Arclight.” 

Professor Arclight pushes you roughly onto his bed, your brain too hazy to pick on him for having a plush duvet and silky sheets. He's stripped you of your wit and nitpicking attitude, along with your destroyed shirt, and makes quick work of your jeans. You're sprawled across his bed in a matching bra and panties, black and blue and lacy with frilly bows and sheer, see-through material. 

“I thought you'd choose those,” he muses, hand running down your thigh, eager to check his work. You twist away, but he catches you with his other hand, strength driven by the lust and desire he's been ignoring for days. Finally, his fingers creep toward your inner thigh, resting just shy of the crotch of your panties. You can't help but thrust upward and wiggle to hopefully guide his fingers closer. “Such a needy little girl... How badly do you want this?” As if he doesn't already know.

“God, please,” you whine and moan, dipping your hand over your stomach before it's caught by Christopher's. “Christopher, please! You've been making me wait for so long...!” 

“What did you say?” His voice falls, dark and warning. 

“Shit,” you murmur, more out of delight than fear. “Doctor Arclight, I'm sorry. I just, you're making me lose my mind, I can't help it.” 

He sighs and rummages under his bed for a moment, threatening to make this night so much worse if he catches you with wandering hands. You obey, for what might be the first time since this whole ordeal began, and almost grin with glee when he twists a black, leathery flogger in his grip.

“My lessons have far more of an impact here, Miss (Your Name). I expect you'll learn quickly.”

“I-I'm sorry, Doctor Arclight.” Play it up. Fall into character. It's just a character. “Please, I'm sorry. It was one mistake.” One big mistake that you can't take back, (Your Name). You know this. You should know better. You're a history major.

“One mistake too many,” he argues, flipping you over by your hips. Faux fight or freeze kicks in, fear not a consideration this time, and you fight. You turn your hips in the opposite direction, arms flying up to his chest to push him away no matter how badly you want to pull him in. For a scrawny-looking dude, he's decently strong; his brain's still the biggest piece of him, mulling over what mind games to play with you in the coming moments. His own arousal spikes during the tussle, and he has to remind himself a million times that this isn't a fantasy, this is a person, and this person's more fragile than she lets on. 

That doesn't stop him from finally pinning you down, hands tight around your wrist, chest bobbing in time with yours. “If you wanted more than ten, all you had to do was ask.” After a slow, purposeful massage, he taps the leather straps against your bare ass, thong offering no coverage, and instructs you to keep track of your beatings. The leather snaps against your skin, causing you to cry out with a screech, slowly morphing into slow little moans. 

“You love being in pain, don't you, Miss (Your Name)?” 

“Yes-- ah! Five, fuck...! Yes, Doctor Arclight. I fucking love it when you hit me.” You'll wear those bruises with a hidden pride in so many ugly ways. 

Six. Seven. Eight. In an act of self-interest, Christopher throws you onto your back, smoothly transitioning to a matching riding crop gently tapping against your sex. You writhe and move to crawl backwards; his arm comes down to your chest, his body draped over yours. 

“Where were we, Miss (Your Name)?”

“Um, I think eight, or... fuck me.” You aren't sure if he's asking what you last counted, or what the next count is supposed to be. He's a manipulative piece of shit. 

“I suppose you'll have to start over.” 

You do. Each slap against you sends electrifying jolts of pleasure and pain through your body and brain. The crop is far less forgiving against your heated skin, and you think about begging for its return when he lifts it from your clit. 

“Are you going to be a good, obedient little girl for the rest of the night?” You nod. Christopher frees you from your underwear, slowly, taking time to run curious fingers over each breast, teasing each nipple before drawing a line down your stomach, stopping short of your pussy. He can't figure it out; any other woman bores him, men aren't much better; this is supposed to be how he solves this problem, but his hypothesis testing doesn't apply nearly as well to these situations. It's the way you're looking at him, peering up at him through hazy, glassy eyes. Glass. That’s the problem; your fragility.

“You're so pretty down here, Miss (Your Name),” he murmurs softly, a teasing thumb brushing against you for the shortest half-second of your miserable life. A tiny gasp reaches his ears. “You make such lovely little noises when I touch you.” Christopher kisses your stomach, trailing up to your chest, your neck, stopping at your cheek. “Who do you belong to, Miss (Your Name)?” 

You swallow, breathing heavily, nearly embarrassed over your hopeless pleas. “You, Doctor Arclight.” 

“How do I make you feel, (Your Name)?” 

Whenever he drops the title, the 'Miss,' your stomach drops. Or your heart soars. Something somewhere shifts suddenly, so to speak, and it's sickening. Confusion is better suited for the classroom, but it follows you to the bedroom, to your apartment, to the dressing room... How does he make you feel? A quiz question with no right or wrong answer; it feels like a trick. 

“Really fucking good, Doctor Arclight.”

“Show me how good I make you feel.” 

Finally. You leap into his lap, straddle his hips, and grind against his erection while your lips press and pry against his own. You feel a little bad ruining his makeup once again, and if you're feeling particularly lovey-dovey at the end of tonight, you might confide in him that you find makeup application oddly erotic and intimate. Right now, all you care about is kissing his lips until they're swollen, biting at them until your tongue can press against his own, forcing him to fall backwards into his pillows while you finally,  _ finally  _ get to work at undoing his shirt buttons. 

He hums amused against your lips, matching your fervent kisses, needing to remind you who's in charge. “Do you want my clothes off, Miss (Your Name)?” 

“So fucking badly,” you murmur, continuing to tug and bite at his lips, your own starting to pulse with exhaustion. “Please, sir.” 

He gives himself permission to change it up, much like last time, although tonight is far more intentional. “Why's that, princess?” 

Your giggling moan meshes with his panting breaths. You want to be more than Miss (Your Name). You fucking loved it when he called you 'princess' before, as if you want to be rescued from something, or someone. You loved it then, and you love it now. “Because,” your lips keep working, “you've been denying me for days, and I've always wanted to know what you look like naked.” 

“Always, hm?” Christopher squeezes a finger between his lips and yours, gently pushing you away with a huff of amusement. You're pouting, lips swollen and dry, not deterred by the pain. “Elaborate.” 

Your fingers want to keep going until the last button's undone, but Christopher catches your hands in his, raising a teasing brow, commanding that you answer the question before all else. “He was a dick, but Professor Wyatt was right. You're fucking gorgeous, Doctor. I needed a science credit and I chose your class because you're really hot.” The truth really does hurt, doesn’t it (Your Name)?

“Am I?” He smirks, finishing your task for you, very unlike his usual professor persona. 

“I wanted to slap the shit out of you when you thought about taking your necklace off earlier,” you confess, lunging for his belt and once again being denied. “I've imagined myself watching you get ready in the mornings. I've gotten off to it before.” 

“Oh?” He hums, shirt open; of course the idiot nerd has an undershirt on, you scoff internally. “I've been living in that pretty little head of yours for a while, haven't I?” 

“And I haven't?” You reach and help him get out of his sleeves, tossing the fucking fitted shirt as far away from him as humanly possible. “I'm the bratty stupid girl from your intro class.” (Suddenly putting it lightly, aren't you?)

“I don't believe those were my exact words,” he corrects, sitting on your torso, legs on either side of you while he tugs the white undershirt over his head. “I'll concede that I've had fleeting thoughts about you.” 

“You sick fuck,” you smirk. “Tell me everything.” 

Christopher places another finger to your lips, firm and demanding attention. The way he dominates every cell in your body makes you shiver at the command, leaving you with no good sense, nodding in reply. The end of his braid rests against your chest, silky silver strands tickling your soft skin. “You're going to stop talking now; understood?” 

Ah, the deflection. It returns in the form of a slender index finger begging for worship; you smile and teasingly peck at his digit with your lips, just once. You're stupid, so his love of manicures and hand hygiene just now clicks with you, hinted at further by the (oddly shy) addition of another finger to your lips. You give him a few more kisses, one lick, and as quickly as you start, you stop. It's cute, the way he bites the interior of his lip, exhaling out of frustration. You love getting under his skin, and he makes it far too easy.

“I don't recall telling you to stop.”

His hands are always spotless; he's religious in their care and cleanliness, but he has your blood on them all the same. You're pinned underneath him, but gesture to his nightstand for the sanitizer and lotion, taking them out of his hands before he can flip open the lids himself. You want to ask him why this turns you on so damn badly when you're not the one with the hand kink, but you're tired of listening to yourself talk. You want him to react. He won't let you up, your back pressed into the mattress while you make work of his hands, rubbing each of his fingers with a lotion that might as well be called 'I have money to blow on outrageously expensive skincare and you don't.' 

Christopher lets his eyes slip shut, hands going limp as he lets the relaxation take over. Still straddling you, he shifts, rubbing himself against you with a shaky breath. “You thrive on my attention, don't you? And you're so,” his breath shakes when you massage his palm, “obnoxiously proud of yourself when you succeed in pleasing me. Isn't that right?” He spares a glance, watching you nod. “Doing so much without having to be told... You're such a good little girl, aren't you?” 

The throwback's real. You're already blushing; saying it in jest is far easier than submitting and saying... “I am,” you mumble, avoiding the inevitable. 

“You'll keep listening to me, won't you?”

Just get it over with already. Fuck intro classes, all of them. “Yes, Daddy.” Your hands lace into his, your thumb running over every bit of his hand you can reach. 

“Put your mouth to good use,” he orders, “and keep your hands to yourself.” 

You're back to nipping at his palms, sucking his thumbs and fingers, licking the areas between each digit with painstaking attention to detail. He's getting better at holding back moans, worse at keeping wispy sighs to himself. There must be something else, you assume, and you're supposed to keep your hands to yourself, but they're resting at his knees, which are at least semi-close to his feet, so... You paw at his knee, moaning against his other palm. 

“You can speak, princess.”

“Your feet,” you whisper between his fingers, kissing his nails.

Christopher smirks, making eye contact with you in such a way that makes the gears turn until you realize that his shower earlier was literally just to wash his extremities. This fucker will find ways to remind you that he's a professor of logic and reasoning until the day you die. “Oh, is that all?” He teases, finally rewarding you with kisses to your breasts, wiping his hands on your torso, because you're worth as much as your saliva. You shiver. “You want to kiss at my feet like the dirty, worthless little girl that you are?” 

“Fuck,” you grumble, lips quivering against his fingers, “yes. Please, Daddy.” This is why you like him - he lives in your head, he knows what you want him to say, he knows how you think and feel and maybe being a physics professor makes him the all-knowing omniscient creature he believes himself to be. 

“You love it when I talk down to you, don't you?” He forces a dark chuckle, pushing you toward the edge of the bed. “On your knees.” You take direction – you love being pushed around – and get on your knees, plush carpet underneath, and tug off his socks that're far too clean to have been worn all day (he plans everything, smugness rising). “You're pathetic, (Your Name).” His big toe runs the length of your cheek, dodging your tongue. His toes rest underneath your chin, lifting your gaze to his. “Getting off on insults and insubordination like the worthless little girl that you are. Strutting around my classroom as if you're the one in charge.” Fuck, you're wet. Your knees ache, your pussy aches, you want to slip a few fingers inside and brush against your g-spot until you scream. “You wanted me to notice you, didn't you? You were begging for my attention, failing on purpose, getting under my skin until I had no choice but to force you to behave.” 

You think he might have a point, but you bite back the doubt and finally catch his big toe in your mouth, licking, sucking, giggling when you hear the long, uneven moan from your professor. It's a beautiful moment of weakness, how he won't look at you, eyelids too heavy with pleasure. You lick at his insole, kiss the arch of his foot. His toenails match his fingers, as meticulous as ever. You're reminded that your history degree is useless, and wonder if you can make a living by being his in-home slave, doomed to paint his nails and fuck him at a moment's notice. (That would make your degree far too useful, and the world isn't that convenient.) 

An idea strikes. You're a brat, after all. His other foot works at your neck and cheek, and when you lift your tongue from between his toes, your hand darts out for his other foot, nails quickly and gingerly running down the length of his sole. The reaction you earn is so fucking delicious. 

“Fuck!” He jerks his foot away with an annoyed, deep laugh, brow furrowed, lips forced into a grin before the glowering stare and grim smile return. His laugh sends you into a frenzy; you want to hear more, if he'll allow it. He won't; Christopher takes a fistful of your hair and tugs upward, forcing you to your feet and back onto the mattress. “You crafty bitch,” he hisses. “I thought I told you to keep your hands to yourself.” 

“I guess I'm just a bad listener.” ("Give it to me, Doctor. Beat the shit out of me.")

“You're so hellbent on proving me wrong, aren't you?” He sneers, all but throwing you to your back, sitting on your stomach. He reaches behind your head, and you take the opportunity to knead at his clothed erection. He grunts with a swallowed moan before slamming your wrist against the mattress, a padded cuff wrapped tightly around you. He smiles, amused and taunting, watching you uselessly fight against the binding. “I suppose I'm giving you what you want, hm?” 

“Yes, Daddy.” 

“Would you like me to finish tying you up, (Your Name)?” 

“Please,” you breathe. 

“Listen well, (Your Name), and I'll consider letting you come.” 

Oh, fuck. You buck your hips in response, trying to dry hump him from the most awkward angle; a futile effort that he laughs at, and god damn it, his laugh is sexy. He's sexy. You want him. You want him to fuck you up like more than your grade depends on it. 

“Put your other arm up,” he commands. You comply. “At an angle, Miss (Your Name). 45 degrees.” Oh, now is so not the time for fucking numbers. The physicist in him can't let this go. You can usually follow basic geometrical requests, but your brain's been turned to mush, and you move a bit too far. “Jesus Christ,” he sighs aggressively, “it's not a difficult request, Miss (Your Name)!” You moan and start to squirm underneath him, loving how he degrades the shit out of you. He takes your arm and jerks it to the corner of the bed, arms now suspended above your body. “Spread your legs.” They twitch and slowly part. “Pay attention, Miss (Your Name)!” A little more, just as slowly. “For fuck's sake, Miss (Your Name), I said spread your goddamned legs!” Before you can complete the request, he forces them apart, and you moan a string of curses as he ties them up tighter than your arms. “Show me how well you can move.” Your arms wiggle a bit, your legs rather stuck, and you whimper when he runs his hands down your sides. “Do you still think I'm a control freak, Miss (Your Name)?” 

“No, sir,” you whisper. “I need to be told what to do. I'm useless otherwise.” 

“You're beautiful when you're helpless,” he smirks, leaning down to give you one teasing kiss against your clit. The cries of pleasure speak to your desperation, your shame. Christopher runs across your thighs before getting up, ignoring your whine of protest. “I want you to see how beautiful you are to me.” 

Christopher takes his phone out of his back pocket, and you fucking lose it. You're grappling against your bindings, the straps waving and snapping about to no avail. “No, no,” you plead, “please, sir. You're embarrassing me. I... don't want to see myself like this.” 

He pauses with an upturned brow, glancing in an aimless direction. “Ah... Pause,” he says, bouncing back when he sees you roll your eyes. “I can't tell if you're truly uncomfortable, or if--” 

“I'm playing it up, dumbass,” you sigh. “Er... Sorry. I'm fine, but uh... Thanks for checking.” Orgasms aren't the only thing Christopher can ruin, apparently. Fuck him.

You both fall back into characters that aren't exactly characters. Christopher lifts his phone back up with a purpose, you resume your struggles, and he recovers fully with a grin. “Smile, Miss (Your Name).” You don't; Chris takes the photo anyway, grinning all the while, and brings the fruits of his labor to your face. You look fucking pathetic, spread eagle across his bed. He zooms in on your face, your exposed pussy, juices pooling under your defenseless body. “Absolutely stunning,” he murmurs against your neck, leaving you with another mark. “I'll be hanging onto this for quite some time.” 

The blindfold makes a triumphant comeback, and Christopher appears to go missing, sounds in the room completely gone. You hear the door unlock, open, and shut. “Christopher?” No response. You've no way of knowing that he's still standing at the door, taking silent footsteps across the soft carpet. You stay still for a moment, struggle again, sigh, and start to feel especially tiny. You're just a speck of dust floating around in space, forgotten and ignored, and it turns you on more than you thought possible. “Christopher?” You try again, louder. “Doctor Arclight, please,” you whine with a shuddering inflection. “I don't like being alone, sir. Please!” It's not like you to be so honest, but when you get exactly what you deserve, it's hard to keep the truth to yourself.

Christopher watches you writhe, physically and emotionally, slipping out of his slacks and adjusting the waistband on his boxer-briefs. He'll come to your rescue in just a moment, quietly rounding the bed. He has two different instruments of torture in his hands, the first coming to rest on the nightstand with no indication, the second hovering just inches from your body.

You jump with a slight scream, immediately shouting in forced delight and squealing with laughter. “Stop, stop!” You cry out through laughter, a bundle of feathers tickling at your sides and stomach. “Oh my God, stop! Please!” 

“You made me lose composure – it's only right that you experience the same.” 

“I-I-I'm sorry!” You find it harder and harder to speak through the peals of giggles; he swaps the feathers for his fingers, nails grazing against your neck, sides, thighs, feet... Your cheeks are sore, abs tight and tense, mind tired of laughing uncontrollably. He ignores your begging until you crack. “I'm sorry! It was stupid, it'll never happen again! Please stop tickling me!” 

“You want me to stop tickling you, princess?” 

“Yes, yes, yes! Stop!” 

“Alright,” he complies, hands coming to a halt. “This is what you asked for, Miss (Your Name).” 

Right after you catch your breath, something quite literally shocks your stomach. A startled, slightly pained yell screeches through your throat. “Fuck, what the fuck?!” An electric crackling rings through the room, the hum of a battery of sorts penetrating the silence.

“You wanted me to stop tickling you, princess,” Christopher replies, sounding bored but looking insanely enthralled (not that you can tell, thank God). He debates taking off your blindfold, but getting to surprise you with each little zap of the wand has him sporting wild eyes and a fierce hard-on. “Does it hurt?” 

“Yes!” Zap, screech, zap, yell, zap. “Stop!” Pulses of electricity scorch past your skin, sending little spurts of energy that jolt through your muscles, causing twitching and contractions against your will. “Daddy, stop!” You whine, little spasms tingling throughout your arms and legs. “Please, sir, just tickle me instead!” 

“You're in no position to tell me what to do, little girl,” he coos, a soft finger standing in stark contrast to the hot electric shocks. “You asked for this.” (Christopher loves a good loophole and knows how to sneak them into contracts, proud of himself in such a fucked up way.)

“I'm begging you, please!” 

“Do you remember the lesson on electricity, Miss (Your Name)?” Another powerful charge courses through your body, and you jump once more against the bindings. Your wrists ache, your ankles throb, your body leaks with eroticism. Somehow, all of that together makes you a good student; you got a C- on that quiz too. 

“It's the result of a broken current, I think!” Fuck, ow, fuck fuck fuck, that one against your thigh hurt in such a good way. “Electrons move around and look for protons, or some shit, oh my God, stop!” 

Christopher chuckles, content to remove the blindfold and place the electric wand back down. “I had a feeling you'd benefit from more hands-on experience, Miss (Your Name).” 

“Yeah,” you pant with a glare, eyes adjusting to the sudden light. “Just bring a fucking Tazapper to class next time. Fucking idiot.” It hurt. You want him to feel bad about it. He probably doesn't.

“Watch your tone,” he warns. 

“I'll watch my tone when you finally shove your cock inside me,” you level. “I'm fucking horny and I'm sick of the edging.” 

“And I'm getting sick of listening to you complain.” 

“Bring me to orgasm and I'll shut up.” 

“Ah,” Christopher brightens suddenly, the falsities dripping from his features. “Allow me to aid in your quest for personal gain, Miss (Your Name).” Like clockwork, he starts to knead at your breasts, fingers teasing your nipples; he's picked up on all the cues that tell him you're amazingly sensitive, so much so that he can watch your attraction flow from your body if he feels so inclined. The lubrication feels hot against his fingers that've traveled south, one dipping in and curling in just the right way. His thumb comes to your clit, rubbing in small circles, a brow quirking when your hips buck and your moans get louder. “Are you really going to come in less than fifteen seconds?”

“No,” you lie, not convincing him with your shallow breaths and upward thrusts. 

“You're a disgusting little slut,” he mumbles. “What kind of a person lusts after their professor?” 

“Shut up and give me the dick.” 

That gives him an idea. He hums as if deep in thought, tilting his head, running a hand through his bangs as if really mulling it over, lifting your hopes before throwing them onto the ground in a heap of discarded clothes and a ripped-up transcript with a C scribbled next to intro physics. “I'm inclined to agree that one of us needs to quiet down.” 

A weak comeback flutters against your lips; they refuse to open upon seeing the cute little red ballgag in Christopher's hands. You shake your head hurriedly, no matter how badly you want to nod and open your mouth. You'd prefer it if he shoved his dick down your throat; you see the outline against his black underwear and want nothing more than to suck him dry. 

“Open your mouth.” He glares when you shake your head again. “Open. Your. Mouth.” Christopher tries to stare you down before exaggeratedly sighing, long bangs flitting about as he expresses his distaste. “You've left me no choice, princess.” Before you can react, his hand clasps over your mouth, the other pinching your nose shut. You let loose with a muffled protest, thrashing aimlessly. The hand over your lips drops, nearly baiting you into taking a breath. “You'll have to open that pretty little mouth at some point.” True to his word, your futile attempts to breathe through your nose are useless. Your lungs ache, your arousal spikes in such a glorious manner, hips bucking as if to say-- 

“Are you going to come without me touching you?” He sounds legitimately surprised. “Surely you're not that easy, Miss (Your Name).” You keep trying to maneuver your head away with no success, needing air in a handful of seconds. You're seriously going to come without him fucking touching you, you weird-ass bitch. Right as your lungs are ready to give in, Christopher brushes against your clit. You gasp, loud and pitiful. He wedges the gag in your mouth, orgasm denied. You whine and cry and carry on against the rubber ball, Christopher smirking, punchable face proud and unashamed. “You were so close, (Your Name).” 

Christopher busies himself with close-up photographs of your face. He teases you, calls you pretty and cute while you hopelessly drool all over yourself like a damn fool. He asks you questions, and berates you when you try to answer, reminding you again and again that he can't understand you, you silly girl. He revels in your gagged moans when he sucks and bites at your breasts, laughingly insulting you and your stupid muffled laugh when he tickles you again. You want to call him names, hurl scathing insults back, but you can't even formulate a full sentence in your head. 

“I'm going to take this off, (Your Name).” Christopher taps the red ball in your mouth, uselessly wiping away excess spit. “When I do, you're going to tell me just how badly you want me. Convince me to give you what you want. Do you understand?” After receiving a nod, Christopher stays true to his word, petting your hair as you take gasping breaths, finally resting your jaw. “Use your words, princess. Before I change my mind.” 

“I'm dying to be fucked by you,” you whine. “I want you, I want your cock so fucking badly, sir. Please, Daddy, please! I need it, I'm nothing without it. I've been thinking about it for days. I don't even care about the grade anymore, I'll do anything. I want you to fuck me like your life depends on it.” 

Christopher's on his feet now, finally stripping down to nothing. He won't touch himself; the sight has your pussy pulsating, begging for him. You strain against the cuffs, begging and pleading, willing to compromise and suck him off or even give him a plain-ass handjob; anything for his cock, you tell him. He rifles through his bedside drawer, plastic crinkling before he bows over you, braid framing his face in the sexiest way possible. 

“Do you want me, princess?” 

“Yes, God, please,” you sigh, still fighting. “Please Daddy, I'll keep begging if I have to.” 

Christopher plants additional kisses against your jaw and chin, your neck, nipping at your ear. “Do you want me to fuck you, (Your Name)?” 

“Yes!” 

“Who do you belong to, (Your Name)?” 

“You. I belong to you. I'm your disgusting little slut who wants nothing other than your dick. Please, fuck me, please!” 

Christopher finishes preparing himself, protection still a priority, because he respects you, just like he said. He pauses, staring at you, face softening if you catch him in the right light. The expression reminds you that you can't take this back; you don't want to. You want this. You fucking need this, don't you? 

So he obliges. After an eternity, Christopher slips his cock into you, a guttural moan resonating in his throat. He wants this as much as you do, but he's patient here. He rocks his hips slowly, holding your hips down when you buck and grind and wiggle about until you give up, if only because you don't want him to slip out. His thrusts are slow, agonizingly so. “How do I make you feel, Miss (Your Name)?” 

“So fucking good,” you groan. “I'm...” 

Christopher watches your hands fight again; he takes the request to heart and starts rubbing at your clit in time with his motions. His cock twitches inside you when you let loose with a long 'fuck' out of sheer pleasure, slickness growing drastically. He feels your walls tighten against him, and he's far closer than he wants to be; his fault, he admits. 

“Permission, Miss (Your Name).” 

“Can I come, sir?” 

“Hm.” 

“Please, Daddy.” 

“Hmm...” 

“God, I'm so fucking close, please!” 

Not stopping, Christopher leans down, wanting a closer look at you, forcing your attention to him and only him. “Say my name, (Your Name). I want to hear you say it as you come for me.” 

Fuck, that's it. You're finished. The edging, the days of torment, they all bubble up in your core and soar through your pussy with unbearably pleasurable contractions, heat coursing through your body. “Fuck, I'm gonna come,” you pant. 

“Say my name.” 

“Fuck, Christopher!” You cry, giving in and letting the orgasm take hold. “Christopher...! Fuck me, oh my God, Chris...!” 

That's his name, the one you haven't called him, the one he's been dying to hear from you but would never admit it. He's the strong one here, but in this exact moment, hearing his name while your pussy grabs his cock before forcing him out with a rippling orgasm... He's weak. A curse glides through his teeth as he slides back in, residual contractions of your own orgasm encouraging his. It's sooner than he wants, but he lets go. He lets go of his over-controlled persona and moans, whispering your name as he comes. 

You're trying to catch your breath. You want more of him. You feel Christopher tense inside you, his face contorting in a beautifully ugly way, lips completely open as he gasps for breath. You wish you could feel him fully, willing to go through the extra contraceptives for him, but too ashamed to ask. That's your limit? Seriously? You're so goddamn weird. 

Christopher watches you bask in the afterglow, his own mind hazy, but not so foggy that he forgets about the toy resting at his side. It's embarrassing for him to admit that he overnighted some of these just for you, but... it's worth it, somehow. Before you can react, a whispered 'what?' hanging in the air, Christopher turns on the wand, and you fucking screech, all hell breaking loose.

“Holy fucking fuck!” You scream, the vibrations way too strong and too much. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh fuck... Oh my fucking God! Stop!” They're unforgiving, intense, and fuck, you agreed to this on that stupid checklist, but holy shit. “Christopher, Daddy, please! That's too much!” 

“Is it?” He grins, pressing the magic wand against you even harder. You scream and continue to wildly buck and thrash, Christopher undeterred. “You might be right.” 

“Fuck me! Take it off!” A long scream follows. “Oh my God, no, stop, I'm gonna--!” 

You've never had a second orgasm quite as... Intense doesn't begin to cover it. It's a strange mixture of painful, unbearable tensing, all of your senses tingling and twitching. Your limbs are quite literally tingling, extremities starting to go numb from all of the stimulation. You come again, orgasm ripping through your body; you weren't a screamer before this. Loud, yes, but not throat-cuttingly disturbing. It's almost enough to make you cry. 

Satisfied with his work, Christopher turns the wand off, cleaning himself up and simultaneously amazed at the lack of shame he feels. He'll give it a few minutes. “You did so well, princess. I'm truly impressed.” 

“Fuck...” You whisper. “Christopher...” 

“What is it?” 

Your face tingles. Something's wrong. You're breathing, you can still feel. Oh. You can still feel. “I need a break...” 

Now the guilt sinks in. “Of course.”  The cuffs come undone, his arms batting them away as if the remnants will speak louder than the wet sheets and bodies coated with sweat. He rubs at each ankle and wrist one by one as you're released. You're bruised, he notices: multiple marks on your neck in the shape of his mouth, red prints on your breasts, your thighs... Your lips are swollen and dry, clit still engorged, hair matted, legs wet... You're a mess. 

You're a fucking mess. 

“Christopher...?” 

Oh, no. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh. (it's what you wanted)


	6. References

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> References: None. This study has no scientific value.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can confirm you still make bad decisions.

Christopher's emotionally challenged. He's bad at vocal cracks, changes in pitch, watery eyes, and everything that's unfolding in front of him. Can you guarantee that there are no feelings involved? You did. He did. He's used to you getting low marks on his quizzes, missing questions, giving half-answers. Christopher is not used to being wrong, and fuck, was he wrong. 

“Come here,” he whispers; an ask, rather than a demand. 

You like being told what to do. You pitifully crawl over to his side, and hesitate. Sex is easy. You love aftercare. Why is this hard? Because it's Christopher Arclight; Doctor Arclight, fluffing up pillows and inviting you over with an open arm and a face that says he wants to smile but doesn't want to seem happy. 

“Come here, (Your Name).” He has a nice, soft voice. It relaxes you, somehow. “It's alright.” He pats the bed just as softly. “Come here.” 

“Why... is this so hard?” 

“What?” He reaches out and caresses your cheek, one of the only parts of you he didn't slap or bite or poke and prod. 

This is hard. You can't even swoop in with a dick joke. You bite your lip and shrug. “This. Physics. I don't know.” 

Christopher starts to feel worse when you don't cuddle with him. He needs it too. It's hard to admit; he knows what you mean, and doesn't know how to express that he's in understanding. “What do you need, (Your Name)?” 

You sniffle and bite your lip so hard you think you might draw blood, one of the kinks that neither of you have an affinity for, believe it or not. You do get turned on when people cry, because you're fucked in the head, but it's different when it happens to you. It's Christopher Arclight. It's Christopher fucking Arclight. “Chris...” 

“Hm?” So it wasn't just because he was horny and unbelievably turned on. His heart jumps when you call him Chris. 

“I need... something?” Suck it up, (Your Name). Tears are falling and you can't suck them up. “I need...” Another sniffle, a whimper that isn't induced by a desire for anything other than, well, something akin to but not exactly love. 

Christopher's bad at emotions. He knows it, and you know it too. You figured it out when you realized he was single; he has the looks, he has the money, he has the status, and no other redeeming features. Strange, since he's tender and trying to show you he cares in this moment. In other moments, he's cold. Self-absorbed. Uncaring. Callous. He acts like he's better than everyone else because he's not, and doesn't want people to see the truth he lives. 

You're bad at emotions too. You're average in appearance, you're broke, you're a shitty student, and have no other redeeming qualities other than your ability to pin your insecurities on other people. You're also terrible at seeing the good in people, yourself included. 

This is a mess. You're a mess. Christopher is a mess. So you embrace the mess, and cry into his chest. 

“Shh...” Christopher doesn't know what else to say. He holds you against him, rubbing the back of your head while he mulls over what he wants to tell you. “You're going to be alright, (Your Name).” You start to sob, vocal and heartbroken. He hugs you tightly and kisses your cheek. “I put you through a lot. I should've checked in with you more often.” You shake your head; he sighs. “I hope you know I didn't mean what I said.” 

“I'm so stupid...” 

“You're not,” he whispers in assurance.

“I'm failing your class.” 

“You're not.” 

“Only because I did this.” 

“I said I was open to suggestions, Miss (Your Name).” 

“Don't call me that.” 

He grimaces. You're crying harder. “My apologies, (Your Name).” Chris takes extra care to rub at the back of your neck, working out the kinks. “It's...” He pauses. You carry an absurd amount of stress in your shoulders, he realizes, working at a knot under your shoulder blade. “I give my students extra credit assignments if they can explain why they're struggling. Most of them shy away from me.” 

“Because you act like a jerk,” you giggle through your tears. “But I get it. Your teacher friends suck.” 

“They're not my friends,” he chuckles, a bit forlorn. “I don't have many of those.” 

“Same, honestly.” 

“What about, ah...?” 

“I don't remember her name, either.” You pause. “You're not fucking the dean?” 

He sighs, long and tired. “The dean is my ex-partner's father.” 

“Oh. Yeah. Don't do that.” You feel a low laugh rumble in his chest. You've stopped crying as much. “You've heard that rumor, I take it.” 

“Before I saw it plastered all over your phone, yes. The university's president had HR investigate the allegations made by your class.” 

You burst out into laughter. “So you slept with me instead? Fuck, you're brilliant.” 

Chris almost pokes your eye out trying to brush away the rest of your tears, but you appreciate the sentiment. He cuddles with you before running you a bath, staying when you ask him to stay, washing your hair with his fancy hair care products and rubbing lotion into your skin. He humors your comments about his hand kink and shows you an extensive collection of beauty products, some of which you've never even heard of. He teases you when you admit again that you want to watch him get ready in the morning, but will humor you all the same. He makes sure you eat, keeps you hydrated. He brushes your hair after you change into one of his dress shirts, and... gives you his phone? 

“What do you want me to do with this?” You kick your legs back and forth, lounging on your stomach with one of his many blankets draped over your back. 

“Whatever you like.”

“I want you to keep the pictures.” 

“Thank you,” he offers with a questioning inflection, careful to not tug on any knots in your hair. “That doesn't change my original answer.” 

You think you're a bad person, but truly bad people don't feel terrible looking through someone's phone. Chris assures you it's alright. He sucks at words and is good with numbers, so he's given you his PIN to show you he's an open book with the right (wrong) people. He texts you more often than others, rarely makes calls, doesn't get non-work emails, and his photos are of you, starry nights, and...?

“Oh for fuck's sake,” you laugh. 

“Hm?” 

“I had a roommate who fucking worshiped the ground your brother walked on.”

“Ugh.” 

“Agreed.” 

Before bed, Christopher has you snuggle with him, and gives his phone to you once more. His banking app sits on the screen, an absurd portfolio staring you in the face and hitting you with the grim reminder that you're fucking poor. You shoot him a look. He smirks. 

“You one percent-er motherfucker,” you chide. 

“I thought you might be too tired to top.” 

“I fucking knew it! You're one of those weirdass guys who gets off on weird findom shit.” The irony is palpable.

He doesn't deny it. “Get what you want.” 

“What if I want something you can't buy?” 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

You turn and stare at him. Christopher stares back. His eyes really are obnoxiously beautiful blue sapphires that probably catch fluorescent lights. 

“Do you do this with other students?” 

“Never.” 

“Why me?” 

“I'm not sure.” 

“Tell me what hypotheses you were testing.” 

“I wanted to see if I could be attracted to a woman.” 

“And?” 

Christopher isn't texting you; he can't sit around and think of the exact words to say without making you wait with pained breaths. 

“I feel different with you.” 

“Different how?” 

“In the sense that I wish you weren't my student.” 

You aren't texting Christopher; you can't down a glass of whatever booze you have laying around the apartment to avoid second guessing everything you want to say.

“I got pretty good at sneaking around.” 

He snorts.

“You owe me,” you press.

He gestures at his phone. Get what you want, (Your Name). Do it.

“You can't buy what I want.” 

“What do you want, (Your Name)?” 

“A date.” 

“Hm.” 

You take Christopher's free hand and lay it over your chest. Your heart's pounding. You want him to feel it too. 

“You can't take this back,” he whispers. 

You think he's referring to your heart. You don't want it back. “That's fine.” 

“I've never dated a woman.” 

“You said I make you feel different.” 

You do. “We might be caught.”

“You know I like the thrill.” 

“I'll lose my job.” 

“You like your job?” 

He doesn't. “You're certain you can't wait until graduation?” 

You blink. “I'm graduating?” 

Christopher chuckles once more, and smiles. A genuine, real, out-of-this-world smile. You try to smile back. You both laugh at each other, and yourselves, because this is so fucking wrong. You fall asleep in Christopher's arms after confirming tomorrow's round two. You'll be in charge. For some reason, he respects you. For some reason, you respect him. It's fucked up, really, but this is the first night in eons where you're falling asleep and not thinking about how the fuck you're going to get through the next day. Christopher will tell you what to do; somehow, you're at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's it. you're gonna date the shitty professor. you got what you wanted, right? maybe? hm.

**Author's Note:**

> you both suck at boundaries, huh?
> 
> (quick note: if you're looking to get into the kink realm, don't go about it the way he does - it's dubious consent at best given the nature of their relationship as teacher/student.)


End file.
